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GENERAL 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY    Of 
CALIFORNIA 


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POEMS 


THE   EOD  AND   GUN. 


"THE  SHOT  AT   THE   START." 

The  sun  had  tipt  the  horizon's  edge, 

Launching  in  air  a  shaft  of  gold, 
Across  the  stream,  athwart  the  sedge, 

And  where  the  rippling  currents  roll'd; 
A  boat  was  pushing  from  the  shore, 

A  fowler's  heart  beat  high  with  glee. 
Yet  ere  the  boatman  touch'd  an  oar, 

To  reach  a  wooded  island  near, 
An  early  flock,  on  rushing  wing, 

Flew  o'er  the  stream's  pellucid  face; 
When  sudden  a  report  did  ring, 

And  ceas'd  a  wild-duck  from  the  race. 
The  artist  hath  depicted  well 
The  "  Starting  Shot,"  and  what  befell. 

ISAAC  McLELLAN. 


POEMS 


OF 


THE  ROD  AND  GUN; 


OR, 


SPORTS  BY  FLOOD  AND  FIELD. 

BY  ISAAC  McLELLAN, 

GREENPORT,  LONG  ISLAND,  N.  Y. 


EDITED, 

WITH    A    MKMIOIR    OF    THE    AUTHOR, 

BY 

WILL    WILDWOOD, 

FIELD   EDITOR  OF  "TURF,  FIELD   AND  FARM;"  AT7THOR  OF  "  MEMOIRS  OF  EMINENT 
SPORTSMEN,"  "  THE  GREENWOOD  CLUB,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

HENRY     THORPE, 

•Stmtarj)  of 

THE  L.  I.  SPORTSMEN'S  ASSOCIATION,  AND  FOUNTAIN  OUH  CLUB 

98    NASSAU    STREET. 
1886. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1886,  by 

ISAAC   McLELLAN, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


M.  H.  GREEN, 

PRINTER,  ELECTROTYPER  AND  BINDER, 
324  to  330  Pearl  Street, 

NEW  YORK. 


TO  THE  MEMBERS  OF 

THE  SPORTSMEN'S  ASSOCIATIONS  OF  THIS  COUNTRY 

THIS  VOLUME   IS   RESPECTFULLY 

INSCRIBED  BY 

THE  A  UTHOR. 


M844858 


CONTENTS. 


GAME. 

PAGE 

' '  THE  SHOT  AT  THE  START  "  . .    front 

PREFACE 9 

MEMOIR 11 

African  Game,  the  Gemsbok 51 

African  Scenery,  Birds  and  Fruits 19 

Albatross  and  Penguin,  the 145 

Antiquary's  Armory,  the 78 

Autumnal  Sports 63 

Bison-hunting  in  the  Far  West 26 

Brief  Summer  in  the  Arctic  Land 158 

Canvas-back  and  Red-heads 101 

Caribou-hunting 56 

Chamois  Flocks  of  Switzerland 96 

Coot-shooting 74 

Death  of  the  Last  English  Sparrow 113 

Deer-hunting  in  Maine 37 

Deer  Pass,  the 121 

Duck-shooting  in  Bamegat  Bay 115 

Dusky  Duck,  the 102 

Eagle,  the 103 

El  Conquistador 142 

Elephant-hunting 33 

Elephant-hunting  in  the  Island  of  Ceylon 62 

Elk,  the,  or  Wapiti 90 

English  Skylark  in  Australia 146 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Falconry 137 

Fall  Migration  of  the  Brant,  the 32 

Fire-hunting  Deer 80 

Flight  of  the  Buffalo,  the 91 

Flight  of  the  Canada  Geese 32 

Forest  and  Stream 68 

Frontier  Hunter 94 

Frost  Pictures  on  Window-pane  of  "  Turf,  Field,  and  Farm"  159 

Giraffe-hunting  in  Central  Africa 54 

Glory  of  Autumn,  the 21 

Gorilla,  the 52 

Great  Antarctic  Wall  of  Ice 155 

Grizzly-bear  Hunting 60 

Haunts  of  the  Asiatic  Leopard  and  Panther 125 

Hippopotamus,  the 44 

Hunter  and  Trapper,  the 127 

Hunter  in  Central  Africa,  the 58 

Hunter's  Camp  at  Night 98 

Hunter's  Song 141 

Hunting  in  Central  Africa  44 

Hunting  the  Great  Elk  in  the  Island  of  Ceylon 131 

Indian  Hunters 88 

Kingfisher,  the 150 

Lake  Tahoe,  Colorado 130 

Lion  of  South  Africa 42 

Lion,  the 24 

Little  Beach  Sanderling,  the 104 

Little  Chicadee  Warbler 152 

Long  Island  in  late  October 23 

Mexican  Hunting-grounds  and  Scenery 99 

Moose-hunting  in  a  Canadian  Winter 29 

My  Dogs  Sancho  and  Neptune 139 

My  Parker  Gun 117 

Nature's  Invitation 17 

Naw-kaw,  a  Winnebago  Chief 144 

October 133 

Open  Season  for  Quail -shooting 140 

Oriental  Hunting-grounds  and  Scenery 39 

Ostrich,  the 65 


CONTENTS.  5 

r.\i;r. 

Panther  in  Louisiana 83 

Pinnated  Grouse 110 

Plover 71 

Polar  Bear 84 

Prairie-chicken  Shooting 160 

Quail  72 

Rabbit 107 

Reindeer 124 

Revisiting  in  Fancy  the  Grouse-shooting  Plains  of  Illinois. . .  128 

Rhinoceros-hunting 48 

Rifle-practice 134 

Rocky  Mountain  Goat 86 

Rocky  Mountain  Sports 66 

Rod  and  Gun 77 

Ruffed  Grouse— Partridge 108 

Saguenay  River 156 

Sand-hill  Crane  and  other  Wild  Fowl  of  Mexico 85 

Scene  in  Kamschatka 162 

Scenery  and  Game  of  Wyoming  Territory 87 

Sea-brant 97 

Sea-gull 112 

Spare  the  Swallows 148 

Squirrels 106 

Summer  Woodcock-shooting 119 

Tiger-hunting  in  India  with  Elephants 40 

Vision  of  the  Past,  a 163 

Watching  for  Deer 122 

Watching  for  Elephants  at  Night  in  South  Africa 46 

Western  Emigrants  and  Squatters 92 

When  this  Old  Gun  was  New 136 

Whippoorwill,  the 149 

Wild-cat 81 

Wild  Pigeon Ill 

Wild  Swan,  the 31 

Wild  Turkey 69 

Winter  Sports 28 

Wolf 75 

Wood-duck 118 

Yosemite  Valley,  the 153 


CONTENTS. 


FISH. 

PAGE 

Angler's  Chant,  the 185 

Angling 243 

Autumnal  Fishing 167 

Black-bass  Fishing  in  Western  Streams 189 

Black  Drum,  the 233 

Blackfish 193 

Bluefish,  the 244 

Bonito,  the 239 

Boy  Angler,  the 183 

Boys  and  the  Bergalls,  the 210 

Brookside  and  Hillside 208 

Brook  Trout 170 

Brook  Trout's  Comments  upon  Delmonico's  Dream 177 

Bunker-fishing 186 

Carp  and  Tench. 224 

Channel-bass  Fishing  in  Florida 173 

Columbia  River,  the 209 

Common  Pickerel 201 

Crevalle  Fish  of  Florida,  the 230 

Divided  Stream,  the 228 

Dolphin,  the 223 

Eel-Spearing  by  Torchlight 180 

Far  Western  River,  a 176 

Fishing  for  Albicore  in  the  South  Pacific 220 

Florida  Scenes  and  Sports 234 

Flying-fish,  the 241 

Goldfish  and  the  Silver-fish,  the , 215 

Haddock-fishers,  the 245 

Hake 195 

Hauling  of  the  Seine 207 

Herring  and  Pilchard,  the 227 

Hillside  Rivulet,  the  216 

Kingfish,  the 197 

Last  Cast,  the  232 

Little  Sunfish  of  the  Brook,  the 226 

Mangrove  Snapper,  the 236 

My  Old  Fishing-boat 219 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

Old  Mill  by  the  River,  the 217 

On  Long  Island  Sound 199 

On  Reading  G.  C.  Scott's  "  Fishing  in  American  Waters". . .   171 

Pickerel-fishing  through  the  Ice 191 

Pompano  of  Florida,  the 243 

Porgee 199 

Porpoise,  the 184 

Red  Grouper  of  Florida,  the 237 

Reminiscences 213 

Rival  Pleasures  of  Sea-water  and  Fresh- water  Fishing 229 

Salmon  of  Labrador 166 

Salmon  of  New  Brunswick 168 

Schoodic  Lakes,  Maine 213 

Sea-bass 202 

Seal  at  Labrador,  the 203 

Seeing  an  Aquarium  in  a  Bookstore  Window  179 

Shark,  the 194 

Sheepshead 204 

Smelt-fishing 188 

Spanish  Mackerel 200 

Spanish  Mackerel 248 

Speckled  Bass  at  Lake  Pepin,  Minn 195 

Striped  Bass,  the 247 

Sturgeon,  the 189 

Sword-fish,  the 206 

Tarpum  of  Florida,  the 238 

Whale,  the 221 

When  this  Old  Rod  was  New 181 

White-fish  of  the  Northern  Lakes 205 

Yellow  Perch,  the..  .174 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

PAGE 

All's  Well 265 

Arctic  Tragedy,  the 258 

Burning  of  old  condemned  Battle-ship  Ohio 266 

Christmas-time 261 

Comet  of  1882,  to  the 262 

End  of  the  Year,  the 270 

English  Races  and  American  Triumphs 255 

Frank  Forester  Memorial  Ode 268 

Gayeties  of  Night  in  the  City 260 

Longfellow 250 

Ocean  Yacht  Race,  the 253 

Races  at  the  Fashion  Course 256 

Sprite  Hall 263 

Wild  Horse  of  the  Prairies. .  .  251 


PRKFACK. 


OrR  widely-extended  country,  reaching  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific  coast,  from  the  Northern  Lakes  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
abounds  with  almost  every  variety  of  wild  game  of  the  choicest 
qualities.  The  ocean,  the  river,  the  lake,  the  brook,  mountain, 
forest,  prairie,  and  stubble  field — all  have  their  peculiar  tenants; 
fish,  fowl,  and  wild  animal,  ranging  the  wood,  swimming  the 
waters,  beating  the  air.  Almost  without  limit  are  the  attractions 
of  field  and  flood  in  our  noble  and  far-spread  land;  and  to  describe 
their  different  varieties,  their  mode  of  life  and  capture,  the 
scenery  where  they  are  found,  has  been  the  business  of  the  natu 
ralist,  the  novelist,  and  the  sportsman;  but  the  poet  in  a  collected 
volume  has  hardly  here  contributed  his  part  to  the  general  store 
of  knowledge.  As  the  variety  of  the  noble  game  and  fish  of  our 
land  and  waters  is  greater  and  more  attractive  than  that  of  any 
other  country,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  Africa,  so  nowhere 
are  the  sports  of  field  and  flood  more  universally  followed  than 
with  us.  The  consideration  of  these  facts,  and  the  desire  to  con 
tribute  something  to  the  treasury  of  the  knowledge  of  our  wild 
game,  and  to  depict  the  pleasures  to  be  enjoyed  in  their  pursuit, 
led  the  writer  to  prepare  this  work;  and  if  it  may  yield  pleas 
ure  to  any  person,  and  more  especially  to  brother-sportsmen,  he 
will  feel  that  he  has  his  reward.  To  commence  and  complete 
the  work  has  been  with  him  a  labor  of  love,  for  his  participation 
in  field-sports  has  not  been  small;  and  he  can  only  regret  that  his 
ability  to  describe  does  not  equal  his  power  to  enjoy  the  delight 
ful  pastimes  of  the  gunner  and  the  angler. 

The  author,  in  preparing  a  work  that  might  perhaps  be  styled 
a  book  of  natural  history,  has  not  confined  his  pen  strictly  to 
descriptions  of  birds,  fish,  and  animals  that  are  considered  as  game, 
but  has  included  many  others  that  have  no  claim  to  such  title. 
In  the  present  volume  he  has  sought  to  reproduce,  as  far  as  pos- 


10  PREFACE. 

sible,  his  collection  of  sporting  poems,  lost  in  a  recent  disastrous 
fire  in  New  York — viz.,  the  burning  of  the  Potter  Building,  on 
Park  Row,  attended  with  grievous  loss  of  life  and  property.  Our 
original  volume  was  then  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  F.  E.  POND 
("Will  Wildwood"),  connected  with  the  Turf,  Field  and  Farm, 
and  the  loss  of  the  editors  of  that  excellent  sporting  journal  was 
very  great;  and  our  own,  though  comparatively  trifling,  could 
not  easily  be  repaired,  as  no  second  copies  of  many  of  the  articles- 
contained  in  that  volume  could  possibly  be  obtained.  But  the 
kindness  of  friends,  and  especially  of  the  editors  of  the  Turf, 
Field  and  Farm  and  of  Forest  and  Stream,  has  enabled  the 
author  partially  to  replace  the  loss,  in  using  such  duplicate  copies 
as  they  have  been  able  to  supply  to  us.  Since  this  volume  was 
commenced,  several  years  ago,  a  great  number  of  sporting  associa 
tions  have  been  formed  in  the  country,  consisting  of  gentlemen 
of  leisure,  intelligence,  and  high  repute,  who  are  interested  in 
field-sports  and  the  preservation  of  fish  and  game,  and  to  gain 
their  brotherly  favor  would  be  honor  indeed.  So,  what  poems 
we  have  been  able  to  save  from  the  wreck  we  hope  may  find 
favor  in  their  sight.  There  has  always  been  a  degree  of  friendly 
brotherly  feeling  among  sportsmen,  and  this  has  encouraged  us  to 
offer  this  work  to  public  notice,  and,  above  all,  to  brother-sports 
men,  to  whom  it  is  respectfully  dedicated.  If  we  meet  with  fra 
ternal  approval  at  their  hands,  we  shall  feel  rewarded  for  the  labor 
of  many  years  in  trying  to  produce  something  acceptable  to  lovers 
of  the  rod  and  gun. 

And  so  we  leave  our  work  in  the  hands  of  the  kind  reader. 

THE  AUTHOR. 

GREENPORT,  LONG  ISLAND,  March  1,  1886. 


A  MK.MOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAN. 

BY  WILL  WILDWOOD. 


"  FOR  half  a  century  MB.  McLBLLAM  has  sung  to  animated 
nature  in  the  forests  ami  sequestered  places,"  says  the  accom 
plished  sporting  author  and  discriminating  critic,  Mr.  CHARLES 
HALLOCK,  "and  his  voice  has  still  the  clarion  ring  of  the  bugle, 
albeit  it  is  the  bugle  deep  down  the  vale.  His  steps  do  not  falter, 
and  his  faith  grows  brighter  as  the  twilight  lengthens.  When  the 
liquid  poetry  of  ISAAC  MCLELLAN  ceases  to  flow  it  will  not  be 
common  clay  that  chokes  the  outlet.  His  presence  in  the  world 
of  sporting  literature  should  be  always  recognized  with  that  re 
gard  which  years  of  honor  earned  should  command." 

ISAAC  MCLELLAN,  the  poet-sportsman,  was  born  at  Portland, 
Maine— the  birthplace  likewise  of  his  life-long  friends,  HK.NKY 
W.  LONGFELLOW  and  N.  P.  WILLIS— in  the  year  1806.  The 
parents  of  MCLELLAN  and  WILLIS  removed  to  Boston,  and  at  the 
age  of  thirteen  both  youths  were  sent  to  Phillips  Academy, 
Andover,  Mass.,  to  be  fitted  for  college.  From  thence  MCLELLAN 
went  to  Bowdoiu  College,  and  WILLIS  to  Yale.  During  his  col 
lege  life  ISAAC  MCLELLAN  was  in  the  next  class  to  LONGFELLOW, 
HAWTHORNE,  CHEEYER,  and  other  distinguished  writers.  His 
friendship  with  LONGFELLOW  continued  unchanged  up  to  the 
time  of  the  demise  of  the  latter,  revived  and  strengthened  during 
absence  by  correspondence.  After  graduating  he  engaged  in  the 
practice  of  law  for  several  years  in  Boston,  and  was  then  in  almost 
daily  intercourse  with  X.  P.  WILLIS,  at  that  time  editor  of  the 
Boston  Monthly  M<trj<tzine.  Mr.  McLELLAN  in  his  writings  re 
marks  that  of  his  intimate  college  friends,  neither  LONGFELLOW, 
HAWTHORNE,  nor  WILLIS  was  a  devotee  of  field-sports,  and  on 
their  holidays,  although  they  roamed  the  forest  and  followed 


12  A  MEMOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAN. 

along  the  clear,  limpid  streams  teeming  with  fish,  they  used 
neither  rod  nor  gun  for  amusement.  Another  classmate,  however, 
the  brilliant  SARGENT  S.  PRENTISS,  was  a  devoted  lover  of  shoot 
ing,  and  oft  together  on  the  Saturday  afternoons  would  young 
McLELLAN  and  PRENTISS  ramble  through  the  woods  in  pursuit 
of  game.  When  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW  was  established  at 
Cambridge  as  Professor,  the  old  intimacy  of  the  two  friends  was 
renewed,  both  in  Boston  and  at  the  home  of  the  great  poet  in 
Cambridge. 

During  his  editorial  career  in  Boston,  ISAAC  MCLELLAN  was  en 
gaged  as  associate  editor  of  the  Daily  Patriot — afterward  incorpo 
rated  with  the  Daily  Advertiser — and  soon  after  began  the  publi 
cation  of  a  monthly  magazine,  which  he  finally  consolidated  with 
the  Weekly  Pearl,  formerly  published  by  ISAAC  C.  PRAY.  About 
this  time  he  contributed  largely  to  WILLIS'S  Monthly  Magazine, 
the  New  England  Magazine,  the  rare  old  Knickerbocker,  and 
various  other  periodicals,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  many  of 
his  poems  attracting  widespread  attention  and  admiration.  At 
different  periods  Mr.  MCLELLAN  wrote  three  volumes  of  poems, 
which  were  published  by  Allen  &  Ticknor,  Boston.  These  works 
were  entitled,  respectively,  "  The  Fall  of  the  Indian,"  "The 
Year,"  and  "Mount  Auburn."  The  poems  were  well  received 
by  the  public,  and  one  of  the  volumes  received  a  very  friendly 
notice  from  the  editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  who  quoted  and 
highly  commended  a  little  gem,  "The  Trout  Brook,"  the  only 
poem  on  sporting  topics  in  the  three  works. 

While  engaged  in  these  literary  pursuits,  Mr.  MCLELLAN  em- 
ploj'ed  his  leisure  time  in  the  sport  of  wild-fowl  shooting  upon 
the  sea-coast,  this  being  the  principal  pastime  of  many  New 
England  spoilsmen.  After  making  a  tour  of  two  years  in  Europe, 
he  gave  up  the  practice  of  law  and  his  literary  labors,  withdraw 
ing  to  the  tranquil  joys  of  rural  life,  where  he  might  find  ample 
use  for  gun  and  rod.  His  passionate  love  for  field-sports,  and 
more  especially  wild  fowl  shooting,  inspired  him  to  write  in  prose 
and  verse  on  sporting  subjects;  and  the  delicacy  of  limning,  the 
inspiring  sentiment,  and  rare  vigor  of  these  poems  bespoke  at  once 
the  able  writer  and  keen  sportsman.  WILLIS  and  other  distin 
guished  writers  have  given  Mr.  MCLELLAN  the  credit  of  being  in 
several  respects  the  finest  poet  in  America.  GENIO  C.  SCOTT  has 
remarked  very  truly  that  "McLELLAN  is  as  a  poet  on  field-sports 


A   MKMOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAN.  13 

what  Gen.  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS  was  as  a  song-writer— both  unsur 
passed  in  their  way."  While  iu  Europe  he  shot  and  fished  in 
nearly  all  portions  of  the  country,  and  thus  added  to  his  critical 
observation  of  American  game  and  shooting  a  practical  knowl 
edge  of  the  field-sports  of  the  Continent. 

Among  the  favorite  shooting  resorts  which  he  was  wont  to  fre 
quent  were  Cohasset,  Plymouth,  and  Marshfield,  Mass.,  the  latter 
being  the  rural  home  of  that  immortal  orator  and  statesman, 
DANIEL  WEBSTER.  Through  his  courtesy,  ISAAC  MCLELLAN 
passed  two  seasons  at  Marshfield,  dwelling  at  one  of  the  farm 
houses  belonging  to  Mr.  ~\VI:I;STI:K.  Here  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  the  great  sportsman  almost  daily,  enjoying  his  usual 
labors  and  his  rambles  with  rod  or  gun. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER  passed  many  of  his  most  delightful  days 
shooting  at  Brant  Rock,  in  his  light  gunning  skiff,  or  trout-fish 
ing  in  the  clear  streamlets  of  the  vicinity.  As  an  angler,  no  man, 
perhaps,  was  ever  more  ardent  and  enthusiastic,  and  it  is  doubt 
less  in  some  degree  due  to  the  vivifying  influences  of  this  manly 
recreation  that  he  was  enabled,  when  necessary,  to  undergo  such 
continued  labor  as  that  which  fell  to  his  lot  in  Washington.  He 
was  equally  at  home  along  the  trout-streams,  on  the  bay,  or  in  the 
Senate  chamber;  the  same  dignified,  courteous  gentleman,  whether 
iu  the  field,  on  the  farm,  or  on  the  forum. 

Nearly  thirty-five  years  ago  Mr.  MCLELLAN  removed  to  New 
York  City,  and  there  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  sporting 
celebrities  of  the  day,  who  congregated  at  the  old  Spirit  office, 
where  WM.  T.  PORTER  ("  York's  Tall  Sou  ")  presided— one  of  the 
best-known,  and,  at  that  time,  the  most  popular  of  all  the  editorial 
fraternity  in  Gotham.  Here  he  frequently  met  with  "FRANK 
FORESTER, "and  the  acquaintance  formed  from  "tastes  kindred 
and  pursuits  common  "  soon  ripened  into  friendship,  which  ex 
isted  to  the  time  of  the  tragic  death  of  the  great  sporting  author. 
His  sketches  of  H.  W.  HERBERT  in  prose  attest  a  friendship  and 
a  sympathy  which  may  well  deserve  notice,  while  his  lines  to  the 
memory  of  his  departed  friend  possess  a  pathos  and  sublimity, 
combined  with  symmetry  and  grace,  rarely  equalled.  It  was 
through  the  instrumentality  of  HERBERT,  that  Mr.  MCLELLAN 
secured  a  fine  resort  at  Barnegut  Bay  for  snipe  and  water-fowl 
shooting,  and  there  enjoyed  many  days  of  glorious  sport. 

During  several  years  he  passed  a  part  of  each  season  on  the 


14  A  MEMOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAK 

coast  of  Virginia  and  atCurrituck  Sound,  N.  C. ,  where  the  water 
fowl  were  then  very  abundant.  In  later  years  he  has  followed 
the  sport  of  duck-shooting  at  the  Shinnecock  and  Great  South 
Bay,  Long  Island,  where  he  has  resided  for  some  time,  in  close 
proximity  to  the  finest  resorts  of  wild-fowl. 

While  in  Virginia  he  contributed  a  valuable  sketch  to  his  friend 
GENIO  C.  SCOTT'S  "Fishing  in  American  Waters,"  and  the  poet 
ical  gems  in  that  standard  work  were  also  supplied  by  MCLELLAN. 
He  still  contributes  occasionally  to  the  sporting  journals  of  the  day 
— the  Turf,  Field  and  Farm,  Forest  and  Stream,  American  Angler, 
etc.,  besides  the  Home  Journal  and  other  periodicals  of  high 
literary  merit,  which  frequently  contain  poetic  gems  from  his 
pen.  His  ardor  for  field-sports  has  an  intensity  which  age  cannot 
quench,  and  his  pen  is  still  as  vigorous  in  depicting  those  sports 
which  he  loves  to  describe  as  in  earlier  life.  Many  of  his  poems 
are  descriptive  of  the  larger  game  of  Africa  and  Europe,  and 
these,  with  his  delineations  of  American  game  and  shooting, 
consist  of  nearly  two  hundred  pieces,  which,  if  collected  in 
book  form,  would  make  an  attractive  volume  of  a  character  at 
once  unique  and  pleasing.  Such  a  work  would  form  an  accept 
able  addition  to  any  library,  and  especially  to  the  libraries  of 
sportsmen,  the  poems  comprising  a  valuable  fund  of  sporting 
lore. 

The  late  WENDELL  PHILLIPS  held  our  bard  in  high  estimation; 
and  the  various  collectors  of  American  poetry,  such  as  Dr.  Gris- 
wold,  Dr.  Cheevers,  Mr.  Kettell,  and  others,  all  give  him  an  hon 
orable  place  in  their  pages.  If  he  has  not  always  reached  the 
upper  realm  of  poesy,  like  his  contemporaries,  BRYANT,  LONG 
FELLOW,  HOLMES,  WHITTIER,  and  LOWELL,  still  he  has  been  con 
tent  to  follow  the  quiet  wood-paths  by  brookside  and  riverside; 
to  pass  under  the  shadows  of  woodlands,  or  to  traverse  the  great 
grim  deserts  of  our  Far  West  in  pursuit  of  the  grizzly,  the  elk, 
and  the  buffalo,  or,  better  still,  to  penetrate  the  Dark  Continent 
of  Africa — the  home  of  Behemoth.  If  he  has  not  strictly  fol 
lowed  in  the  more  popular  paths  of  poetry,  he  has  been  well 
pleased  to  devote  himself  to  rod  and  gun,  seeking  rather  to  please 
his  brother-sportsmen  than  ambitiously  striving  for  more  general 
fame  in  the  branches  of  his  art;  and  we  think  that  his  brother 
shooters  and  anglers  will  none  the  less  value  his  labors. 

At  the  age  of  fourscore  years  the  venerable  sportsman-bard 


A  MEMOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAN.  15 

stands  practically  alone  in  liis  favorite  field  of  labor.  In  the 
peaceful  evening  of  a  well-rounded  life  he  may  be  regarded  a- 
the  honored  patriarch  and  preceptor  of  a  fraternity  believing  in 
the  creed  that  "  the  groves  are  God's  best  temples" — a  fraternity 
that  frequents  the  greenwood  and  green  fields  of  nature  rather 
than  the  greenroom  and  the  green  table.  That  the  precept  and 
practice  of  our  poet  of  the  woods  and  waters  are  in  harmony, 
may  be  safely  assumed  from  the  fact  recorded  in  a  recent  letter 
to  the  writer,  that  during  the  whole  course  of  his  life  he  has  never 
been  seriously  ill  until  within  the  past  month,  when  he  was  confined 
to  his  room  for  a  time  by  an  attack  of  pneumonia.  This  remark 
able  exemption  from  the  ills  supposed  to  be  the  dire  inheritance  of 
all  mortal  flesh  must  be  attributed  not  alone  to  the  abstemious 
habits  of  the  bard,  but  to  his  life-long  devotion  to  outdoor  sports. 
It  may  be  reasonably  hoped  that  many  years  of  life  and  useful 
ness  are  yet  in  store  for  him,  and  that  his  rhythmic  numbers  may 
continue  to  flow  on  as  smoothly 

"  As  the  liquid  trill  of  the  wayside  brook, 
Or  the  placid  lake  by  the  breeze  forsook." 


Since  writing  the  foregoing  brief  sketch— originally  embodied 
in  the  "Memoirs  of  Eminent  Sportsmen,"  published  in  the  Turf, 
Field  and  Farm — the  venerable  poet-sportsman  has  acceded  to 
the  request  of  numerous  friends  and  'admirers  desirous  of  seeing 
his  poems  in  library  form,  and  the  present  volume  is  the  result. 
That  it  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  literature  of  flood  and  field 
all  lovers  of  the  gun  and  rod  will  readily  concede.  To  the  en 
thusiastic  devotee  of  field-sports  it  will  be  especially  welcome. 
"Within  its  pages  will  be  found  something  suited  to  the  fancy  of 
every  sportsman — to  the  adventurous  woodsman  of  the  "  HARRY 
HUNTER"  school,  fond  of  "  climbing  to  the  misty  mountain-top  " 
in  quest  of  large  game;  the  wild-fowl  shooter  upon  the  breezy 
bay  or  inland  lakes;  the  ardent  lover  of  the  chase,  to  whose  ear 
the  clamor  of  the  hounds  is  sweetest  music;  to  the  crack-shot  who 
finds  the  recreation  of  quail  or  grouse  shooting,  over  well-trained 
dogs,  the  most  enjoyable  of  all  ;  or  to  the  contemplative  angler, 
revelling  in  the  pastime  so  glowingly  described  by  the  elder  IZAAK, 
of  piscatorial  fame;  these  poems  will  bring  a  flood  of  pleasant 
recollections  and  a  diversified  field  of  mental  recreation. 


16  A  MEMOIR  OF  ISAAC  McLELLAN. 

The  volume  is  something  unique  in  the  annals  of  American 
sporting  literature,  and  deserves  a  niche  in  the  sportsman's  library 
with  kindred  English  works— "  The  Chase,"  by  SOMERVILLE, 
and  WATT'S  "  Remarks  on  Shooting."  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  add  that  the  task  of  the  writer  consists  solely  of  the  brief  and 
fragmentary  memoir.  To  essay  a  revision  of  the  glowing  lines 
that  have  made  the  poet-sportsman's  name  a  household  word 
would  savor  of  an  attempt  to  gild  the  refined  gold.  In  conclu 
sion,  we  cannot  do  better  than  to  quote  the  following  apprecia 
tive  tribute,  by  "  HARRY  FENWOOD,"  whose  lines  of  eulogy  will, 
we  believe,  find  an  echo  in  the  heart  of  the  reader: 

Sweet  poet,  ere  I  breathe  thy  name. 

May  friendship  unalloyed 
Be  ever  ours,  though  others  claim 

That  sacred  virtue  void. 

Thy  theme  marks  soft,  virescent  spring, 

Full  summer's  prink'd  array, 
Mild  autumn's  calm,  sere  withering, 

And  winter's  gelid  day; 

The  angler's  cool,  secluded  bower, 

By  far  lone  mountain  stream— 
The  weary  hunter's  evening  hour 

Where  camp-fire  flickers  gleam. 

Thus  sweet  the  lay  when  Nature  tunes 

The  poet's  lyre  for  song. 
Each  sylvan  shade  where  he  communes, 

Inspiring  Muses  throng. 

MCLELLAN,  when  thy  muse  no  more 

Anew  delights  the  ear, 
Thy  laurels — green  in  days  of  yore — 

Shall  bloom  immortal  here. 


POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  AND  GUN. 


The  opening  piece,  "Nature's  Invitation,"  was  the  first  poem, 
and  the  first  reading-matter  of  any  kind,  printed  in  Forest  <m<l 
Stream. 

NATURE'S  INVITATION. 

(~YER  Hie  fair  face  of  Nature  let  us  muse, 

And  dream  by  lapsing  stream  and  drooping  wood; 
Tread  the  dark  forests  whose  primeval  ranks, 
Since  the  Creation  dawn  have  cast  their  shade; 
Ponder  by  flowing  stream  and  ocean  tides, 
And  note  the  varied  forms  of  life  they  hold ; 
Mark  the  wild  game  so  dear  to  hunter's  heart, 
The  swarming  fowl  that  skim  the  salty  deeps, 
The  birds  that  haunt  the  woodlands  and  the  plains, 
The  fish  that  swim  the  seas,  the  lakes,  the  streams, 
And  tempt  the  thoughtful  angler  to  their  marge; 
Glance  at  the  life  that  tills  our  native  woods, 
And  game  of  Asian  plains,  and  Afric  wilds. 

When  soft  May  breezes  fan  the  early  woods, 
And  with  her  magic  wand  the  blue-ey'd  Spring 
Quickens  the  swelling  blossoms  and  the  buds, 
Then  forth  the  russet  partridge  leads  her  brood, 
While  on  the  fallen  tree-trunk  drums  her  mate; 
The  quail  her  young  in  tangled  thicket  hides, 
The  dun  deer  with  their  fawns  the  forests  range, 
The  wild-geese  platoons  hasten  far  in  air; 
The  wild  ducks  from  their  Southern  lagoons  pass, 
And  soaring  high  their  Northward  journeyings  take; 
The  dusky  coot  along  the  coast-line  sweep; 
The  piping  snipe  and  plover,  that  frequent 
The  sandy  bars  and  beaches,  wing  their  flight, 
And  all  the  grassy  prairies  of  the  West, 

2 


18  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD    AND   GUN. 

Teem  with  the  speckled  younglings  of  the  grouse; 
And  all  the  budding  forests  and  the  streams 
Are  gay  with  beauty,  joyous  with  young  life. 

Then  swell  the  first  bird  melodies:  the  wren 
Chirrups  and  perches  on  the  garden  rail; 
The  bluebird  twitters  on  the  lilac  hedge, 
Or  flits  on  azure  wings  from  tree  to  tree; 
The  golden  robin  on  the  apple  bough 
Hovers,  where  last  year's  withered  nest  had  been; 
The  darting  swallows  circle  o'er  the  roof, 
The  woodpeckers  on  trunk  of  gnarled  trees 
Tap  their  quick  drum-beats  wilh  their  horny  beaks, 
The  crow  caws  hoarsely  from  the  blasted  pine, 
High  in  mid-air  the  sailing  hawk  is  pois'd, 
While  from  the  grove  the  purple  pigeon-flocks 
Burst  with  loud  flapping  o'er  the  grain-sown  fields. 

Fair  is  the  scene  in  Autumn,  when  the  Frosts 
From  palettes  rich,  with  prodigal,  free  brush 
Color  the  nodding  groves  with  brown  and  gold. 
Then  silvery-skied,  and  purple-haz'd  the  dome 
Of  heaven's  deep  vault,  and  fair  the  earth  below. 
Far  up  where  sunny  uplands  slope  their  sides, 
Shaggy  with  woods,  prone  to  the  brimming  stream, 
Where  boweriug  beech-trees  shake  their  laden  boughs, 
And  oaks  their  varnished  acorns  high  uplift, 
Where  the  broad  butternut  its  gummy  fruit 
In  russet  husks  slow- ripens  day  by  day, 
And  where  in  crowded  ranks  the  chestnut  groves 
Wave  out  their  broad-leav'd  pennons  to  the  air, 
And  from  their  prickly  burrs  shake  treasures  down, 
There  the  quick  chatterings  of  the  squirrels  sound. 

The  gentle  valley  with  its  belt  of  hills 
Crown'd  to  their  tops  with  grand,  primeval  woods, 
Glows  with  all  forms  and  hues  that  nature  loves. 
Deep  in  its  hollow,  stretch  meadows  brightly  green, 
Kept  verdurous  by  the  full  o'erflowing  stream ; 
Yet  the  deep  swamps  and  thickets  that  engird 
The  river-reaches,  are  resplendent  all, 
Their  umbrage  tinctur'd  with  imperial  dyes. 
The  maples  tall  with  blood-red  foliage  burn, 


AFRICAN   SCENERY,    BIRDS,    AND   FRUITS.  19 

The  hickories  clap  their  palms  of  burnish'd  gold, 
The  poplar  thrusts  its  yellow  spire  in  air, 
The  russet  oaks  and  purpled  dogwoods  blend 
Their  colors  with  the  alder's  sable  green. 
And  scarlet  sumachs;  all  contrasted  rich 
With  sombre  evergreens,  and  willows  pale. 
And  when  the  winds  autumnal,  wailing,  strip 
The  frosted  foliage,  like  a  host  they  stand, 
With  trailing  banners  and  with  drooping  plumes. 

Such  be  the  scenes  in  wondrous  forest-land 
Such  be  the  scenes  by  sea  and  lake  and  stream 
That  we  would  picture — wild  romantic  scenes, 
Dear  to  the  hunter's  and  the  angler's  heart. 


AFRICAN  SCENERY,  BIRDS,  AND  FRUITS. 

T^NCHANTING  scenes  o'er  Afric's  mystic  land 

Since  the  creation's  dawn  have  bloom'd  and  smil'd 
In  lavish  beauty.     And  the  varied  forms 
Of  Nature,  fresh  from  the  Creator's  hand, 
Here  intermingle  their  transcendent  pomp — 
Soft  vale,  and  placid  stream,  and  mountain  range. 

Here  glows  the  flowery  plain,  or  frowns  the  waste; 
Here  flow  majestic  rivers  to  the  sea, 
Or  spread  the  mirror'd  lakes  their  glassy  plain — 
Vast  lakes,  whose  marge  by  savage  herds  is  trod, 
Whose  waves  are  only  cross'd  by  rude  canoe, 
Or  haunted  by  the  screaming  waterfowl. 
Here  desert  moors  extend  their  arid  waste, 
Here  mountains  soar  in  grandeur  to  the  skies, 
Forests  immense,  illimitable,  spread, 
Fair  flowering  groves  and  natural  gardens  bloom. 

The  wandering  exile  from  far  Northern  shores 
Crossing  those  lakes,  oft  drops  the  idle  oar 
To  view  the  wondrous  scene:  far,  far  extends 
The  reedy  shore  with  endless  meadows  hemm'd 
Or  fring'd  with  woods  of  tamarind  and  palm, 
The  green  mazouka  with  its  clustering  fruits, 
Or  the  dark  mola  with  its  oak- like  crown. 


20  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Charm'd  with  this  vision,  Eden-like,  his  soul 
Drinks  in  th'  entrancing  splendors  of  the  scene. 
Far  spread  the  shores,  now  rough  with  beetling  rocks, 
Now  smooth  with  waving  grass  and  rosy  blooms. 
Far  stretch  the  lakes  undimpled  in  their  sheet, 
While  far  in  distance  float  the  mountains  blue. 
Here  a  white  sand-beach  spreads  its  shelly  road, 
Backed  by  the  cocoa-palm  trees,  and  the  huts 
Of  villagers  in  green  plantations  hid. 

Above  some  granite  cliff  the  eagle  swings, 
And  fish-hawks  clamor;  and  in  groves  around, 
Where  the  oil-palms  their  yellow  nuts  display, 
Cooes  the  green  pigeon,  chattering  squirrels  leap, 
The  gay-hued  parrots  glance  like  living  flames, 
And  the  red  trogon  tunes  his  thrilling  lyre. 

Around  the  shores  the  sacred  ibis  flits, 
The  snowy  pelicans  their  files  extend, 
The  stilted  avoset  that  wades  the  shoals, 
The  parva  perch'd  on  floating  lotus-leaves, 
The  black  geese  and  the  gray-hued  spoonbill  tribes, 
And  all  the  gorgeous  fowl  that  haunt  the  wave; 
While  in  the  thicket  or  encircling  wood 
The  guinea-fowl  monotonous  complains, 
The  francolin  calls  ceaseless  to  his  mate; 
From  tree  to  tree  the  keen-ey'd  buffalo-bird 
Twitters  and  sings,  and  kalas  pour  their  songs. 

Fair  scenes  along  the  Balaklai  land 
Perennial  bloom;  green,  flower-enamell'd  lawns 
Slope  to  the  brimming  river's  grassy  edge; 
And  pastures  broad  to  th'  horizon's  verge 
Stretch  boundless,  sprinkled  here  and  there  with  groves. 
Embosom'd  'mid  plantations  of  the  maize, 
The  yam  and  manioc,  nestling  in  the  shade 
Of  cashew  and  the  fig,  guavas  brown, 
And  green  bananas,  lie  the  villages, 
Wattled  with  bamboo,  thatch'd  with  broad-leav'd  palm. 

Rich  are  the  fruits  of  tree  and  shrub  and  root 
That  prodigal  Nature  yields  this  savage  land : 
The  baobob  casts  its  luscious  treasures  down, 
The  tall  mashouka  drops  its  pear-like  fruit, 


TIII:  0LOB1   OF  AUTUMN.  21 

Harsh  with  its  rind,  delicious  with  its  seed; 
The  rough  pineapple  and  the  tamarind  sharp 
Shower  their  offerings,  and  the  cocoa-palm 
Swings  high  its  husked  nuts,  so  honey-sweet; 
Ma/oukas  and  molondos  yield  their  gifts, 
And  motsotiri,  and  grateful  mamosho; 
The  maniko  its  sugary  syrup  pours, 
And  chief  the  motsikiri,  prince  of  trees, 
Hangs  high  in  air  its  gay,  imperial  crown! 


THE   GLORY   OF   AUTUMN. 

"What  sport  shall  we  have  in  brown  October,  when  the  sere 
underbrush  is  bare  of  leaves  to  mar  the  sportsman's  aim;  when 
the  cool,  dewy  earth  sends  up  the  odor  of  the  game  in  fresh 
streams  to  the  setter's  keen  and  sagacious  nose;  when  the  pure 
air  braces  the  nerve  and  fans  the  brow  invitingly!" 

FRANK  FORESTER. 

rPIIE  generous  autumn  days  are  come, 

The  merriest  of  the  year, 
With  dewy  morns  and  rosy  eves, 

And  harvest  moonlight  clear; 
The  hoar-frost  shineth  thin  and  white 

O'er  mountain  and  o'er  plain; 
It  gems  the  faded  grass 

And  the  stubble  of  the  grain. 

What  time  the  day-dawn  flecks  the  east, 

A  gauzy,  filmy  veil 
Floats  o'er  the  crystal  river, 

In  the  hollow  of  the  vale. 
The  bearded  oats,  the  juicy  wheat, 

Have  all  been  gather'd  in, 
The  latest  crispy  husk  of  corn 

Is  garner'd  in  the  bin. 

The  apples  of  the  orchard, 

Red  with  the  sun's  caress, 
Enrich  the  farmers'  cellars 

Or  feed  the  cider-press. 


22  POEMS   OF  THE   BOD   AND   GUN. 

Now  is  the  season's  carnival, 
The  fete-time  of  the  year, 

When  the  blithe  October  breezes 
Blow  bracingly  and  clear. 

When  husking  frolics  in  the  barn, 

Or  the  flooding  broad  moonlight, 
Prolong  with  jocund  dance  and  song 

The  watches  of  the  night. 
For  all  the  toil  of  seed-time 

And  the  harvest  now  are  o'er, 
Save  where  the  flail  resoundeth 

On  the  busy  threshing-floor. 

Now  when  the  genial  breezes 

Sweep  through  the  fading  wood, 
Tossing  the  scarlet  maples, 

And  the  oak  leaves  many-hued ; 
Ere  dawns  the  day  o'er  hill  and  lawn, 

The  sportsman  takes  his  way 
To  upland  moor,  or  woodland  haunts, 

Or  open  breezy  bay. 

The  outlying  deer  are  now  afoot, 

To  browse  the  dew- wet  grass, 
Or  pause  to  taste  the  crystal  brook, 

And  lakelet  clear  as  glass; 
The  brown  quail  in  the  cedar  copse 

Leads  forth  her  hungry  brood. 
The  partridge  whirs  through  open  glade, 

Or  through  the  hemlock  wood. 

Now  o'er  the  salt  and  sedgy  marsh, 

Where  bends  the  rustling  reed, 
The  piper  and  the  plover 

On  the  briny  shallows  feed. 
The  black-duck  and  the  widgeon 

Are  swimming  in  the  bay, 
The  geese  and  brant  in  black  platoons 

Defile  their  long  array. 


LONG    ISLAND   IN    I.ATK   OrTOI'.KK.  23 

It  is  the  sportsman's  festival, 

The  year'-  most  gl<irii>us  time. 
\Vlicn  the  dahlia  and  the  aster 

Are  in  their  golden  prime, 
When  the  rainbow-painted  forests 

Are  resplendently  allame, 
When  every  healthful  breath  we  draw 

Adds  vigor  to  the  frame. 

The  sweetest  of  our  Northern  bards 

Hath  sung  in  mournful  lay 
Of  the  dreary  time  of  autumn— 

Of  the  "sad"  October  day. 
But  methinks  the  changeful  glories, 

The  sport,  the  harvest  cheer, 
Make  the  autumnal  season 

The  brightest  of  the  year. 


LONG   ISLAND    IN  LATE   OCTOBER. 

/^\CTOBER'S  flaming  banners,  of  purple  and  of  gold, 

O'er  all  the  bowery  woodland,  are  llaiintingly  unroll'd; 
From  his  o'er-brimming  urn  red  Autumn  pours  his  dyes 
O'er  all  thy  realm,  Long  Island,  from  clouds  that  sail  the  skies. 
Thy  woods  of  elm  and  chestnut,  so  emerald-green  erewhile, 
Now  glow  with  brightest  blushes,  suffus'd  with  Autumn's  smile. 
The  maples  of  the  uplands  are^flush'd  with  royal  red, 
And  robes  and  garlands  golden  o'er  the  pasture-oaks  are  spread; 
The  sumacs  by  the  roadside  now  wear  a  scarlet  crown, 
The  bay  berry  bushes  by  the  beach  are  clad  in  russet  brown; 
The  apple  orchards,  late  despoil'd  of  all  their  ruddy  globes, 
Tinct  with  the  frost  are  all  array 'd  in  varicolor'd  robes; 
And  low  in  swamps  and  thickets  of  cedar  and  of  pine 
The  woodbines  redden,  and  the  lithe,  high-clambering  grape  vine. 
And  there  the  village  children  come,  the  purpling  grapes  to  glean, 
Whose  clusters  load  the  alders  that  o'er  the  streamlets  lean. 

The  grass  of  summer  uplands,  where  far  the  sheep  -Hock  strays. 
The  bush-grass  of  the  meadows,  where  wading  cattle  graze, 


24  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

So  green  erewhile,  are  wither'd  now,  and  thro'  tlieir  thin  brown 

leaves 

The  sorrowful  breeze  is  sighing,  like  one  in  pain  that  grieves. 
The  bubbling  brook,  whose  currents  glide  through  banks  of  liv 
ing  green, 

So  clear  that  in  the  crystal  depths  the  spotted  trout  were  seen, 
Creeps  brown  and  turbid  now,  all  chok'd  with  foliage  sere — 
A  clouded  mirror  now,  erewhile  transparent  clear; 
Nor  more  the  angler  comes  with  tapering  rod  to  sweep 
The  brook  or  limpid  pond  where  dark  tree-shadows  creep. 

I  stand  high  up  a  hillside,  where,  far  as  eye  may  reach, 
Stretch  out  fair  woods  and  fields,  and  the  sandy  yellow  beach ; 
The  harvest  crops  are  garner'd,  the  fields  lie  brown  and  bare, 
The  thresher's  flail  in  distant  barns  resounds  upon  the  air; 
I  hear  the  cow-boy's  call,  the  whistle  of  the  bird, 
And  all  the  joyous  sounds  of  rural  life  are  heard. 
I  hear  the  piping  quail  and  the  gunner's  weapon  ring, 
And  see  the  startled  coveys  burst  forth  upon  the  wing; 
I  hear  far  overhead,  in  the  upper  realms  of  air, 
The  honking  of  wild  geese,  as  onward  swift  they  fare; 
And  in  the  salt  bay  meadows  I  see  the  fowler's  boat, 
I  hear  his  gun,  I  see  the  smoke  above  his  ambush  float; 
I  see  the  platoons  of  the  coot,  the  squadrons  of  the  brant, 
And  hovering  black-ducks,  the  shallow  coves  that  haunt, 
The  shelldrake  and  the  broad-bill,  and  all  the  feather'd  flocks 
Which  haunt  the  open  bays  and  wheel  o'er  ocean  rocks. 

Fair  scenes,  bright  scenes,  enchanting  scenes!  that  fill 
The  heart  with  o'erflowing  joy,  and  the  life  pulses  thrill, 
So  fair  in  all  your  autumn  pomp,  in  all  your  summer  green, 
When  woods  are  bright,  skies  full  of  light,  and  waters  smile  se 
rene! 


THE  LION.     (Leo  Afrkanm.} 

TN  the  Mahouna  mountain,  in  the  Haracta  glen, 

The  summons  of  the  Sheik  is  out, — Come  forth,  ye  bearded 

men! 

In  African  defiles,  in  jungle,  in  ravine, 
Shadow'd  by  cork-tree  forests  and  by  the  olives  green, 


TIII:    i. ION.  25 

The  torrent-brook  of  Ouled  is  bare  with  torrid  heat — 
Its  gravelly  bed  is  trampled  by  the  lion's  mighty  feet. 
Come  forth,  ye  Arab  tribesmen,  the  hunter  and  the  scout! 
The  signal  fires  are  blazing  o'er  all  the  cliffs  about; 
Put  off  the  sandals  from  the  feet,  the  bournous  from  the  limb, 
For  silent  must  your  pathway  be,  thro'  dell  and  desert  grim. 
Stand  fast  together,  side  by  side,  with  levell'd  gun  and  lance; 
The  foe  lurks  in  the  thickest  shade,  where  never  sunbeams  glance. 
This  slope  upon  the  mountain  side  leads  precipitously  down, — 
Leads  down   to  where  the  brook  pours  out  its  waves  of  turbid 

brown ; 

It  is  the  lion's  pathway,  and  here  he  comes  to  drink, 
With  bristling  mane  and  tawny  hide,  along  the  grassy  brink, 
See!  all  around  the  trees  are  torn,  and  seam'd  and  scarr'd  the 

bark; 

Tis  here  his  angry  iron  claws  leave  their  terrific  mark ; 
Here,  in  the  yellow  sand,  he  wallow'd  in  the  heat, 
And  here  upon  the  pebbles,  the  impress  of  his  feet, 
Then  let  the  bravest  and  the  best,  in  compact  order  stand. 
The  weak  may  hide  where  forests  their  spreading  boughs  expand. 
Here  in  these  desert  places  no  other  life  may  be, 

The  wild  boar  and  the  jackal  turn  from  the  haunt  and  flee; 

The  panther  in  the  thicket  feeds  on  jackal  and  the  hare; 

This  desert  is  the  lion's  home,  the  monarch's  royal  lair; 

From  hence,  when  stars  are  out,  he  gallops  to  the  plain, 

Beneath  the  herdsman's  very  beard  the  cattle  spoil  to  gain. 
Stand  fast,  it  is  the  midnight;  the  earth  is  hid  in  gloom; 

Xu  howls  of  wolves,  no  low  of  ox  across  the  silence  boom; 

No  flash  of  watch-fire,  and  no  light  from  distant  shepherd's  tent 

To  scare  the  prowling  monster,  in  lurid  gleams  are  sent. 

Stand  fast!    There  is  a  sound!     Is  it  the  rising  breeze 

That  murmureth  complainingly  far  thro'  the  bending  trees? 

It  is  the  lion's  trample,  and  see,  in  single  file 

The  tawny  beasts!    And  as  they  come  they  lash  their  flanks  the 
while: 

Their  luminous  bright  eyes  are  of  a  fiery  red; 

They  snuff  the  tainted  air,  they  stride  with  heavy  tread. 

Now  firm  your  arm  and  true  your  aim,  for  life  is  on  the  cast, 

Nor  break  your  ranks  to  flee,  for  that  moment  were  your  last; 

Full  on  the  shaggy  head  discharge  the  leaden  hail ; 


26  POEMS   OF  THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

Alas!  it  glances  harmless,  as  from  a  coat  of  mail. 

One  roar,  one  hollow  roar!  as  from  a  thunderous  sky; 

The  raging  beast  is  on  them  now — they  tremble  and  they  fly. 

He  snaps  the  bone,  he  tears  the  flesh,  and  many  a  victim  dies, 

Ere,  pierc'd  with  balls,  upon  the  earth  the  bleeding  monarch  lies! 


BISON-HUNTING  IN  THE  FAR  WEST. 

T^AR,  where  the  glittering  snowy  thrones 

Of  the  Rocky  Mountains  uplift  their  cones — 
In  the  grassy  plains  and  valleys  around, 
One  endless  pasture  of  flowery  ground — 
The  tawny  herds  of  the  bison  rove, 
Or  browse  in  the  shade  of  the  oaken  grove; 
Or  pause  at  the  brimming  river's  brink, 
Intent  the  gelid  nectar  to  drink. 

Endless  and  countless — rank  on  rank, 
"With  the  warrior  bulls  on  either  flank, 
The  browsing  herd  sweeps  o'er  the  plain 
That  skirts  the  granite  mountain-chain. 
Now  idly  loitering  as  they  pass, 
To  crop  the  tender  and  dewy  grass; 
Now  clattering  swift  in  mad  affright, 
As  panic-stricken  they  take  their  flight, 
When  the  taint  of  danger  infects  the  gale, 
And  they  snuff  the  Indian,  hot  on  their  trail. 

The  savage  armeth  with  lance  and  bow — 
The  Blackfoot  warrior — the  tribe  of  the  Crow. 
He  vaults  to  the  back  of  his  desert  horse, 
Away  from  his  camp  he  takes  his  course ; 
With  whooping  slogan,  with  rattling  rein, 
His  snorting  steed  he  goads  o'er  the  plain ; 
With  swinging  lariat  and  brandish'd  spear, 
Rioting  in  the  mad  career. 

It  is  a  glorious  sight  to  see 
The  lawless  rider,  the  courser  free. 
Like  yelling  fiends  the  tribes  are  out, 
With  flourish'd  lances,  with  frantic  shout! 
Each  plume  of  feathers,  each  scalp-lock  tress, 


P.I  SON-HUNTING   IN   Till!    FA  R    \\KST. 

Streams  in  tin-  bree/e  of  the  wilderness; 
While  fast  ami  far,  in  desperate  race, 
Speeds  on  the  bison,  speed*  on  the  chase. 
No  gaping  ravine  may  check  their  way, 
No  chasm  where  the  grizzly  bear  may  lay; 
No  boiling  torrent,  no  swampy  pool, 
No  turbulent  river,  fordless  and  cool; 
But  on  like  an  avalanche,  on  they  speed — 
The  reckless  rider,  the  uncurb'd  steed — 
O'er  leagues  of  prairie  they  lleetly  sweep, 
Down  crag-iy  gulches  they  headlong  leap, 
Breasting  the  river's  arrowy  tide, 
The  spoil  and  the  spoiler  side  by  side. 

When  the  quarry,  bard  press'd,  doth  panting  fail, 
When  the  toiling  limbs  may  no  more  avail, 
The  painted  demons  around  them  wheel, 
They  draw  the  bow  and  they  ply  the  steel; 
Through  brain  and  marrow  they  hurl  the  lance, 
Like  bolts  of  lightning  their  arrows  glance; 
And  soon  the  verdurous  pasture  is  spread 
With  bleeding  carcasses  of  the  dead. 

Ofttimes  these  tribes  of  the  desert  way 
Enfold,  in  league-wide  circles,  their  prey: 
They  urge  them  on,  with  war-whoop  and  yell, 
To  a  cliiT  that  beetleth  o'er  the  dell: 
And  there,  o'er  the  precipice  grim  and  steep, 
They  force  the  fugitive  herds  to  leap. 
But  oft  some  veteran  of  the  herd 
Turns  in  his  track,  to  fury  stirr'd; 
He  leaves  his  flying  ten  thousand  mates; 
The  shock  of  the  headlong  hunt  he  awaits; 
He  paws  the  earth  with  his  angry  hoof, 
He  warns  the  foe  that  they  keep  aloof; 
He  lashes  his  flanks  with  his  tufted  tail, 
His  brawny  haunches  glisten  like  mail. 
He  shakes  his  matted  front  and  his  mane, 
He  roars  till  the  desert  trembles  again; 
With  sharpen'd  horn,  and  brow  like  a  targe, 
He  threatens  with  death  whoever  may  charge; 
And,  dying,  he  tramples  and  gores  to  dust 
His  wild  assailant  and  foe  accurst. 


28  POEMS   OF  THE   KOD   AND   GUN". 


WINTER  SPOIITS. 

Q  LOW  sinks  the  golden  sun  behind  the  woods, 

The  shivering  woods  of  winter.     The  red  flush, 
That  blooms  along  the  cloud-land  world  above, 
Tinting  the  floating  clouds  with  hues  of  rose, 
Rests  on  the  naked  woods,  and  gilds  their  tops. 
The  chestnut  groves,  that  fringe  the  upland  slopes, 
And  willows  light  that  skirt  the  frozen  stream, 
Black  alders  springing  from  the  oozy  marsh, 
And  the  lithe  silver  poplars,  slim  and  tall, 
Touch'd  by  the  slanting  beam,  are  fair  to  see. 
Deep  lies  the  snow  in  many  a  drifted  heap 
O'er  turfy  mounds  beneath  the  lifeless  woods; 
Their  rugged  boles  are  sprinkled  with  the  flakes, 
Or  crusted  o'er  with  adamantine  ice, 
That  like  a  silver  armor  clasps  them  round; 
Each  leafless  twig  and  sapless  spray  is  gemm'd 
With  jewels  crystalline,  that  shift  and  shine 
And  twinkle  as  the  murmuring  breeze  sweeps  by. 
'Tis  like  some  grotto  in  enchanted  land, 
Where  tricksy  elves  and  fairies  hold  their  court, 
And  in  their  frolic  merriment  adorn 
The  haunted  precincts  with  ice  jewelry, 
Twining  their  wreaths  of  pearl  and  amethyst 
And  crystal  garlands  to  bedeck  the  haunt. 

Mute  lies  the  shining  river  in  its  bed, 
And  mute  the  glistening  lake  outspreads  its  sheet. 
The  foamy  waterfall  of  summer-time 
That  down  the  mossy  rocks  its  torrent  pourd, 
Freshening  the  drooping  ferns  and  rosy  blooms, 
Now  grim  in  icy  death,  rests  motionless. 
The  white  cascade  that  turn'd  the  miller's  wheel 
And  with  its  churning  foam  made  endless  din, 
Fix'd  by  the  frost's  enchantment,  moves  no  more. 

The  white,  uutrampled  fields  immense  extend 
Their  crested  slopes  to  th'  horizon's  edge, 
Trod  by  no  cropping  herd  or  browsing  flock, 
Lifeless  save  when  the  woodman's  weary  team, 


MOOSE-HUNTING    IN     A    l'ANAIH\N     WINTKK.          29 

Laden  with  forest  spoil,  plough  thro'  the  waste. 
The  piping  quail  no  longer  skims  the  space, 
Nor  comes  the  limping  hare  or  prowling  fox, 
For  all  have  vauish'd  into  hemlock  woods. 

But  down  the  country  road,  with  hedges  lin'd, 
The  fanner  opes  the  way  with  cumbrous  sledge; 
And  there  the  merry  sleighs,  with  jingling  bells, 
And  prancing  team,  and  song  and  laughter  loud, 
Cheer  with  their  jocund  life  the  barren  scene. 
Though  shapeless  drifts  beset  the  cottage  home, 
And  white  on  roof  and  gable  rests  the  snow, 
Yet  youthful  faces  beam  around  the  hearth, 
And  merry  jests  prolong  the  winter  night, 
And  viol's  tinkle,  and  the  dancer's  feet. 


MOOSE-HUNTING  IN   A  CANADIAN  WINTER. 

(Atces  Amen'mnus.) 

\  \  "HEN  the  winter  snow-fall  lies  heavy  and  deep 

In  rounded  hillock  and  drifted  heap, 
And  the  frosty  flakes  like  diamonds  shine 
On  the  boughs  of  the  hemlock  and  plumy  pine ; 
Then  forth  to  the  northern  wilderness 
The  hardy  trappers  and  hunters  press. 

The  snow  lieth  deep,  the  snow  lies  white, 
It  fills  the  hollows,  it  tops  the  height; 
The  frozen  river,  the  ice-bound  lakes, 
Are  cover'd  o'er  by  the  sparkling  flakes: 
The  brook  lies  mute,  and  choked  in  its  bed; 
You  cannot  trace  where  its  channels  led; 
The  cedar  branch  is  bent  to  the  ground, 
The  spruce  with  a  weighty  burden  is  crown'd ; 
Afar  spreads  a  silent  and  crystal  waste, 
Where  the  features  of  nature  are  all  effac'd. 

But  the  valiant  hunter  hath  heart  of  steel; 
He  buckles  the  snow  shoes  firm  to  his  heel; 
His  Indian  blanket  and  buckskin  dress 
Suit  well  with  the  rugged  wilderness; 
A  leathern  girdle  surrounds  his  waist. 


30  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Wherein  his  axe  and  wood-knife  are  plac'd: 
Then  forth,  at  the  crimson  dawning  of  day, 
With  his  heavy  rifle  he  takes  his  way. 

The  snow  lies  hard,  for  the  keen,  cold  night 
Hath  form'd  a  crust  both  solid  and  bright : 
So  the  hunter  strides  on  with  steadfast  tread 
Wherever  the  icy  deserts  may  spread ; 
Knowing  well  the  great  moose  and  the  cariboo, 
With  their  clattering  hoofs,  must  wallow  through; 
Although  they  be  fleet  as  bird  on  the  wing, 
When  o'er  the  firm  turf  of  the  forest  they  spring, 
Yet  when  helpless  they  sink  in  the  yielding  snow, 
They're  an  easy  prey  to  their  resolute  foe. 

The  great  northern  stag,  with  antlers  so  broad, 
With  hoofs  that  can  fence  or  assault  like  a  sword, 
Is  a  terrible  foe;  so,  hunter,  beware, 
Nor  rashly  the  dangerous  champion  dare : 
His  niany-tin'd  antlers  are  like  spikes  of  the  oak, 
As  sharp  as  a  dagger,  as  fatal  their  stroke: 
Those  prongs  they  would  toss  both  hunter  and  hound, 
Their  stab  would  impale  them  like  worms  of  the  ground, 
First  drive  the  ounce-bullet  through  skull  and  through  brain, 
Till  he  paint  with  his  gore  the  snow  of  the  plain; 
Then  draw  the  keen  edge  of  your  blade  o'er  his  throat, 
And  sound  the  death-slogan  with  shrill  bugle-note. 

In  the  far-away  northernmost  wilds  of  Maine, 
Where  the  murmuring  pines  all  the  }Tear  complain, 
In  the  unknown  Aroostook's  lonesome  world, 
Or  where  the  waters  of  Moosehead  are  curl'd, 
The  stalwart  wood-cutter  pitches  his  camp, 
In  his  cabin  of  logs  trims  his  winter  lamp; 
And  oft  when  the  moose-herd  hath  form'd  its  "}rard," 
And  trampled  the  snows  like  a  pavement  hard, 
The  woodman  forsakes  his  sled  and  his  team, 
And  his  harvest  of  logs  by  the  frozen  stream; 
And,  arm'd  with  his  axe  and  his  rifle,  he  goes 
To  slaughter  the  moose  blocked  in  by  the  snows ; 
And  many  a  savory  banquet  doth  cheer 
The  fireside  joys  of  his  wintry  year, 
With  the  haunch  of  the  moose  and  the  dappled  deer. 


TIM:  WILD  >w  \N.  31 


T 1 1 E    WILD    S \\'  A  N .     (Ct/'/n  ».<  .-1  flft  rir<tH UK.) 

\  II,  whence  dost  thou  come,  O  bird  of  wide-spread  wing? 

From  what  remotest  shore  dost  thou  wondrous  tidings  bring? 
'Mid  the  Northland's  Arctic  ice,  what  woes  hast  thou  beheld, 
\\  here   the  gales  o'er  shipwreck'd  crews  their  savage   requiem 

knell'd. 

In  thy  century  of  life,  o'er  the  drifting,  whelming  snows, 
Hath  the  shadow  of  thy  pinions  swept  o'er  the  grinding  tiers, 
Win-re  by  the  Pfeffer  River,  or  King  William's  Islet  plain, 
The  bones  of  Franklin's  men  in  ghostly  rest  have  lain! 

Perchance  the  flitting  shade  of  thy  hovering  wings  did  fall 
On  that  desolate,  gray  cairn  where  repose  the  dust  of  Hall; 
Perchance  by  Lena's  flood,  in  bleak  Siberian  land, 
Thou  saw'st  the  lost  De  Long  and  all  his  dying  band! 

O'er  Baffin's  Bay,  o'er  Beliefs  Strait,  perchance  hath  been  thy 

flight, 

Or  over  shores  of  Labrador  in  tempest  and  in  night, 
Where  the  Indian  lurk'd  in  ambush,  with  rifle  and  with  spear, 
( )r  INquimau  in  light  canoe,  to  stop  thy  swift  career. 

Mayhap  o'er  Rocky  Mounts,  o'er  the  bleak  Sierra's  space, 
High  up  in  empty  air,  hath  been  thy  tireless  race: 
Thou  hast  hover'd  o'er  Pike's  Peak,  whose  granitic  boulders  rise 
In  majesty  supreme — cliffs  soaring  to  the  skies! 

O'er  Yosemite's  green  vale,  where  Capitan's  white  cone 
O'er  mountain  range  and  mighty  woods  uproars  its  royal  throne, 
Hath  been  thy  tlight,  and  thou  hast  paus'd  where  Mereed's  waters 

pour: 
One  sheeted  ghost  of  snowy  foam,  along  its  garden  shore. 

For  there  the  wild-fowl  swarm,— the  swan,  the  duck,  the  crane, 
Tin1  pelican  and  gray  geese,  that  browse  the  grassy  plain, 
Where  range  the  bear  and  puma,  the  antelope  and  deer; 
Far  o'er  that  sportsmen's  paradise,  hath  been  thy  free  career. 

Thy  flocks  we've  watch'd  at  Barnegat,  and  Currituck's  great 

Sound, 
A  league-long  line  of  gleamy  plumes,  like  snows  o'er  winter 

ground ; 

Now,  whither  dost  thou  tend?     Perchance  to  Southern  clime, 
Where  calm  lagoons  are  girdled  in  with  orange  and  the  lime. 


32  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CANADA  GEESE 

(Anser  Americanus.) 

TTONK!  honk!  on  stormy  wings  they  cleave  the  upper  air, 

On  gusty  breeze,  above  the  seas,  their  onward  cohorts  fare; 
They  come  from  frosty  solitudes,  where  broods  the  Arctic  night, 
Where  deserts  grim,  spread  vast  and  dim,  in  the  auroral  light. 

The  Esquimaux,  with  bended  bow,  fast  paddling  his  canoe, 
Their  flocks  hath  chas'd  o'er  icy  waste  of  waters  heavenly  blue; 
On  frozen  shore  of  Labrador  the  Indian's  steel  hath  sped, 
But  vain  the  shaft,  and  vain  the  craft,  and  vain  the  fowler's  lead. 

In  twinkling  gleam  of  cold  moonbeam,  their  dusky  files  I  trace, 
In  wedge-like  throng,  in  column  long,  they  speed  the  tireless  race; 
O'er  craggy  mountain-sides,  and  over  torrent  tides, 
The  shadow  of  each  column,  in  swift  procession  glides. 

O'er  the  far-resounding  surge,  in  the  dim  horizon's  verge, 
I  see  their  dark  battalions  on  winnowing  pinions  urge; 
O'er  Lake  Superior's  sheet  their  clanging  pinions  beat, 
Where  Western  plain  and  golden  grain  spread  sumptuous  pas 
tures  sweet. 

The  bleak  November  cloud  casts  down  its  snowy  shroud, 
And  the  throbbings  and  the  sobbings  of  the  winds  are  swelling  loud ; 
The  snowdrift  hides  the  grass,  and  the  lakes  are  crystal  glass, 
So  warn'd,  the  geese-flock  legions  to  gentler  regions  pass, — 
To  the  balmy  Southern  clime,  where  the  orange  and  the  lime, 
With  blossom'd  fruits,  perennial  shoots,  are  ever  in  their  prime; 
To  paradise  ambrosial,  to  banks  of  spic'd  perfume, 
Where  forests  wide  and  river-side  are  prodigal  with  bloom. 


THE   FALL   MIGRATION   OF   THE    BRANT 

(Anser  Bernida.} 

TpAST  on  the  northern  breeze, 

Beyond  the  rosy  cloud-lands  of  the  morn, 
I  see  yon  wedge-line  columns  o'er  the  seas 
In  swift  procession  borne. 


ELEPHANT-HUNTING.  33 

Now  o'er  some  headland  gray, 

Now  o'er  the  sloping  beach  with  sands  of  gold, 
Now  o'er  thick  forests  that  engird  the  bay, 

Your  passage  I  behold. 

Far  up  the  savage  shore 

of  Uaflin's  Hay,  deep  hid  in  darksome  swamps, 
Or  fast  by  shores  of  rugged  Labrador, 

Where  smoke  the  Indian  camps, 

Your  spring-time  home  hath  been, 

And  there  your  callow  fledgelings  you  have  fed 
Where  rank  weeds  grow,  and  wave  the  grasses  green, 

Afar  from  human  tread. 

To  a  soft  Southern  clime, 

To  Florida's  low,  marshy  coast, 
Or  isles  of  Mexic  Gulf,  in  flight  sublime 

Speeds  on  your  snble  host. 

And  there  in  bays  afar, 

Or  by  some  sluggish  river,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  red  flamingoes  line  the  sandy  bar 

And  the  tall  herons  sweep, 

Your  winter  home  shall  be, 

Where  groves  of  palm  shall  shade  their  plumy  crest, 
And  odorous  gales  distil  from  shrub  and  tree,— 

A  paradise  of  rest! 


ELEPHANT-  HUNTING.     (KlcpJias  Africans.) 


journeying  over  Afric's  waste, 
Fair,  flowery  scenes  bloom'd  round  our  way; 
Now  thro'  wild  gardens,  Eden-like, 

And  tree-embower'd,  our  pathway  lay; 
Where  unknown  flowers  and  nameless  plants 

With  flaunting  colors  pleas'd  the  eye, 
And  placid  lakes  and  streams  immense 
Glisten'd  and  smil'd  beneath  the  sky. 
3 


34  POEMS   OF   THE   KOD   AND    GUN". 

The  baobob  its  towering  mass 

Of  foliage  flutter'd  overhead, 
The  moshano  its  pomp  of  leaves 

With  grace  arboreal  o'er  us  spread; 
The  tall  palmyra,  queen  of  trees, 

Like  minaret  rais'd  its  spires  around, 
Which  elephants  delight  to  sway, 

And  shake  its  ripe  seeds  to  the  ground; 
The  mimosa,  with  sweet-gum  buds, 

The  stately  giraffes  love  to  crop; 
The  banyans,  each  o'er  acres  spread, 

Whose  trailing  shoots  they  earthward  drop, 
All  these,  and  others  numberless, 

Wide  o'er  the  verdurous  pastures  spring, 
Laden  with  fruits,  where  sweet  birds  sing, 

And  blossoms  smile,  and  wild  vines  cling. 

Here  vast,  innumerous  flocks  and  herds 

Of  Afric  forests  rove  and  range; 
From  grove  to  grove,  from  pool  to  pool, 

Their  endless  feeding-places  change; 
Feed  on  the  dry,  serrated  grass 

That  only  in  the  desert  grows ; 
The  camel-thorn,  with  prickly-hedge, 

The  cactus,  that  with  crimson  glows; 
Feed  on  the  juicy  lotus  plant, 

On  bulb  and  tubers  of  the  ground, 
And  on  the  sweet  aquatic  shrubs 

By  marshy  pool  and  streamlets  found. 

The  lion  by  the  herdsman's  kraal 

Prowls  all  the  night  with  hollow  roar, 
And  near  the  skulking  jackals  stalk, 

And  carrion-vultures  o'er  him  soar; 
In  fastness  of  the  deepest  wood, 

In  mid-day  heats,  the  elephant, 
Brushing  the  flies  with  flapping  ear, 

Stands  motionless  in  secret  haunt; 
But  when  the  evening  shades  o'erspread 

He  seeks  some  hollow  with  its  pool,  • 


ELEPHANT-HUNTING.  35 

Some  watercourse,  retired  ami  lone, 

Far  wilding  in  its  currents  cool, 
And  there  with  spouting  trunk  doth  lave 

His  dusky  shoulders  with  the  wave. 

The  elephant— the  forest  lord, — 

Mightiest  of  all  the  multitude 
Of  vast  gregarious  flocks  that  roam 

O'er  nature's  pasture-plain  and  wood, 
Feareth  no  challenge,  save,  perchance, 

The  lion's  hoarse  and  hollow  roar, 
Or  the  loud  halloo  when  the  tribes 

Of  Caff  res  o'er  the  desert  pour. 

Ranging  the  waste,  he  snaps  the  trees 

As  on  his  ponderous  route  he  heaves, 
Or  crops  with  a  fastidious  taste 

The  tender  buds  and  spicy  leaves; 
He  plucks  the  sweet  fruit  from  the  branch ; 

With  ivory  tusk  he  digs  the  ground, 
Feeding  on  tubers,  bulbous  roots, 

That  in  the  forest-land  are  found, 
Or  finds  his  most  delicious  spoil 

Where  melons  ripen  o'er  the  soil. 

A  hunter  from  the  Northern  land 

Goes  forth  to  dare  in  fierce  career 
The  great  game,  arm'd  with  deadlier  steel 

Than  Bechuanan's  simple  spear, 
And  dauntless  rides  forth  to  the  field, 

Folio w'd  by  tribes  with  bow  and  shield, 
Day  after  day,  with  hound  and  horse 

And  troops  of  native  spears  to  aid, 
He  follows  the  unsparing  chase, 

In  bloody,  devastating  raid. 
Night  after  night,  in  densest  shade, 

He  watches  by  some  darksome  pool 
The  haunt  of  forest  animals, 

Seeking  their  nightly  fountains  cool. 


36  POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  AND 


Hid  in  his  screen  of  bough  and  leaf, 

He  watches  through  the  starlit  night, 
Hard  by  the  water's  plashy  brink, 

Scarce  seen  in  the  uncertain  light. 
At  first,  the  sleeping  night  is  still, 

No  murmur  stirs  the  calm  profound, 
'.The  palm-trees  droop  their  drowsy  crowns, 

The  song-birds  utter  forth  no  sound; 
The  guinea-fowl's  discordant  note 

No  longer  on  the  air  doth  float; 
All  silent  in  his  leafy  nest 

The  cooing  pigeon  takes  his  rest. 

But  yet  the  hunter  sees  the  sign 

Of  great  game  all  around  the  spot: 
The  spoor  of  roaming  elephant 

O'erspreads  the  solitary  grot; 
And  well  he  knows  the  monster  huge 

Must  come  the  cooling  lymph  to  taste, 
Coming  from  weary  miles  of  wood 

To  seek  his  fountain  of  the  waste, 
As  whales  o'er  seas  remotest  roam 

From  pole  to  pole,  from  shore  to  shore, 
So  elephants  a  continent 

In  restless  wanderings  explore. 

The  gravel  by  his  trunk  is  stirr'd, 

The  trees  about  are  snapt  and  torn, 
The  hunter  sees  the  frequent  dint 

Of  rhinoceros's  horn. 
Soon  comes  the  giant  Borele, 

With  ivory  horn  and  snorting  roar; 
Soon  comes  the  towering  elephant, 

To  bend  the  darkling  fountain  o'er; 
And  quick  the  volleying  rifles  dart 

The  leaden  bolt  to  brain  and  heart! 


DEER-HUNTING    IN    MAINE.  37 


I>KI:R  HUNTING  IN  MAINE.   (Cmm«.) 

TN  the  evergreen  forests  and  swamps  of  Maine, 

When  the  maples  are  red  with  the  autumn  stain, 
By  the  Lake  of  Moosrhrud,  or  far  in  the  hills, 
Where  the  source  of  Penobscot  trickles  in  rills, 
The  hardy  hunters  and  frontiersmen, 
In  woody  fastness,  in  hemlock  glen, 
And  the  "loggers"  that  toil  with  axe  and  with  team 
To  fell  the  pines  that  rise  by  the  stream. 
Oft  leave  their  labors,  to  follow  the  chase, 
To  ambush  the  deer  in  their  lurking-place; 
Or  to  hunt  the  antler'd  moose,  when  the  heat 
Shall  drive  the  herds  to  some  cool  retreat, 
To  rivor  margin  or  lakelet  cool, 
Or  cedar  thicket  that  girdles  the  pool. 

When  the  summer  is  rife  with  insect  pests, 
When  the  teasing  black-fly  the  air  infests, 
The  browsing  moose  and  the  feeding  deer 
Fly  from  those  torments  to  waters  clear, 
And  wading  far  out  thro'  shallow  and  bay 
Secure  from  their  wing'd  tormentors  stray, 
To  browse  on  the  lotus  and  floating  leaves 
Of  the  lily,  where  blue  the  water  heaves. 
'Tis  there  the  fleet-footed  cariboo  laves 
His  tawny  hide  in  the  gelid  waves; 
'Tis  there  the  woodmen,  in  swift  canoe, 
With  heavy  rifle  the  chase  pursue. 

Far  away,  where  the  Adirondacks  grand 
With  their  rock-crown'd  peaks  in  grandeur  stand, 
Where  the  wild  Tahawus,  the  Onkorlah, 
Pile  up  their  ramparts  lonely  and  far, 
Casting  great  shadows  from  ledge  and  from  wood 
On  boiling  river  and  limpid  flood, 
The  hunter  comes  with  weapon  and  hound 
To  mark  the  trail  in  the  forest  ground, 
To  follow  with  keen-nos'd,  yelping  pack 
The  cloven  foot-prints  that  betray  the  track. 

His  skilful  eye  discerneth  the  way 


38  POEMS  OF  THE  BOD  AND  GUN. 

The  noble  hart  hath  pass'd  that  day; 

By  the  bark  on  the  birch-tree  fray'd  and  worn 

He  notes  the  bruise  of  the  sharp-prong'd  horn, 

By  the  dint  in  the  rivulet's  sandy  brink 

He  knows  that  the  hind  stopp'd  there  to  drink; 

Not  a  broken  twig,  not  a  leaf  displac'd, 

Not  a  moss  tuft  from  fallen  cedar  eras'd, 

Not  a  dew-drop  dash'd  from  the  brushwood  green 

May  escape  the  hunter's  vigilance  keen ; 

He  notes  the  herbage  but  lately  cropp'd 

The  trampled  flowers  with  dews  bedropp'd, 

The  cove  where  they  wallow'd,  the  dense  retreat 

Where  they  couch'd  in  the  mid-day's  sultry  heat. 

No  toil  may  daunt  him — ere  dawn  of  day 
Hath  dappled  the  morn,  thick-shadow'd  and  gray, 
He  is  arm'd  for  the  chase ;  thro'  monstrous  stems 
Of  the  timber  grove  the  river  that  hems, 
Thro'  briery  swamps,  thro'  alder  brakes, 
Thro'  upland  pine-tracts  his  way  he  takes; 
He  warily  creeps  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Or  brink  of  the  dell,  all  lonesome  and  still; 
Thro'  wilds  where  the  soft  forest  soil  hath  the  print 
Of  the  fugitive  hoof  in  many  a  dint, 
Till  at  last  he  driveth  thro'  bone  and  thro'  brain 
Of  the  bounding  stag  the  leaden  rain! 

Far  in  the  South,  the  stout  cavalier 
On  galloping  courser  rides  down  the  deer, 
Far  soundeth  his  hulloo  and  bugle  horn 
From  the  broad  plantation,  at  break  of  morn; 
Thro'  bush  and  thro'  brier,  thro'  tangled  glade, 
Like  a  charging  troop  sweeps  the  cavalcade, 
And  many  a  noble  buck  of  ten-tines 
Is  brought  to  bay  ere  the  day  declines. 

Where  Blooming-grove  Park  its  broad  domain 
Extends  o'er  craggy  hillside  and  plain, 
The  hunter  lies  in  the  hemlock  woods, 
Where  the  turbid  stream  pours  out  its  floods, 
And  awaits  the  flying  deer  when  the  hounds 
Pursue  their  track  through  the  forest  grounds, 
And  oft  in  the  bosky  coverts  the  stag, 


ORIENTAL  HUNTING-GROUNDS   AND   SCENERY.      39 

In  his  headlong  leap  over  hillock  and  crag, 

Some  rival  meets  in  the  forest  way, 

Disputing  with  jealous  fury  his  sway. 

Ah!  then  with  a  menacing  front  they  stand, 

Sublime  in  stature,  supremely  grand' 

Each  champion  paws  the  earth  in  his  ire; 

Their  eyes  are  aflame  with  lurid  fire; 

Their  branching  antlers  in  air  are  toss'd, 

And  then,  like  duellist  sword-blades,  are  cross'd, 

They  start,  they  retreat,  they  charge  again; 

They  thrust  till  each  point  has  a  bloody  stain, 

Till,  fast  interlock'd,  tine  grasp'd  with  line, 

They  fall  at  the  root  of  some  giant  pine; 

And,  panting  and  bleeding,  their  eyes  aglare, 

They  helpless  perish  with  famine  there! 


ORIENTAL   HUNTING-GROUNDS   AND   SCENERY. 

'rPIS  a  grand  scene!    The  sunset's  mellow  brush 
Tints  with  a  rosy  glow  the  sparkling  snows, 
Shining  o'er  frozen  torrents,  gorgeous  lakes, 
That  gleam  as  if  with  diamonds  inlaid. 
Far  to  the  South,  Bengal's  untrodden  wilds 
Glow  like  an  emerald;  while  Admere's  waste 
Spreads  its  vast  solitude  of  drifted  sands. 
Farther  away,  the  sacred  Ganges  winds 
Thro'  green  savannas  and  embowering  groves, 
Until  it  mingles  with  the  Bengal  tides. 

Behold !  far  down  the  northern  slope, 
Beneath  the  realm  of  snow,  the  mighty  woods 
Rustle  their  foliage  of  eternal  green. 
The  teak-tree,  the  brown  chestnut,  and  the  oak, 
Kiss'd  by  the  sunset,  glow  like  golden  crowns; 
While  the  black  hemlock  and  the  plumy  pine 
Thrust  up  their  spear-like  points  aiul  pennon'd  shafts, 
Like  hosts  embattled.     Far  beyond,  the  plains 
Of  verduous  Thibet  flaunt  in  living  bloom. 

How  grand  this  southern  slope,  whose  terraces 
Of  granite  skirt  the  dark  abyss! 


40  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

These  cliffs  o'erhang  no  pastoral  valleys, 
Wave  with  no  foliage,  nor  are  imag'd  back 
In  no  clear  mirror  of  pellucid  lake. 
See,  how  like  mosques  and  minarets  they  cleave 
With  their  sharp  pinnacles  the  empty  air; 
While  the  dark  faces  of  the  rocks  dip  down, 
Forming  wild  chasm — fathomless  ravine— 
Along  whose  pebbled  road  the  torrents  pour. 

And  now  a  picture  of  serener  bloom 
Breaks  on  my  vision;  oranges  in  groves, 
Citrons  and  yellow  lemons  glow  like  gold— 
The  ripe  pomegranate  drops  its  juicy  fruit; 
Red  cherries  hang  their  clusters  o'er  the  trees, 
Luxuriant  mangoes  swing  their  golden  globes — 
While  strawberries  stain  with  crimson  all  the  ground. 
Green,  fruitful  vines  their  branches  interlace, 
And  loftiest  trees  with  flowery  festoons  drape; 
Peacocks  display  their  gorgeous  plumes  around, 
And  birds  of  paradise  their  mottled  hues. 

How  clear  this  fountain!  in  whose  depths 
The  blue  and  gold-hued  fishes  glide; 
So  clear,  I  count  the  pink-ray'd  shells 
That  pave  the  shallows  of  the  tide. 
How  gay  the  'broidering  flowers  that  fringe 
Its  edge,  with  hues  of  every  tinge, 
As  if  some  fairy  hand  had  sown 
The  spot  with  jewels  from  her  zone: 
And  held  a  crystal  cup  to  dip 
The  ice-cold  water  to  the  lip. 
Would  the  fair  genius  of  the  place 
Might  beam  on  me  her  radiant  face! 


TIGER  HUNTING  IN  INDIA  WITH  ELEPHANTS, 

"(Tigris  regalis.} 

cross'd  a  brawling  mountain  torrent,  far 
From  our  Indian  camp.     The  red,  angry  glare 
Of  crimson  sunset  shimmer'd  through  the  clouds 


TIGER-HUNTING    IN    INDIA    WITH    ELEPHANTS.       41 

Of  dust  that  111  I'd  the  air  with  their  dull,  coppery  hues, 
Presaging  the  near  coining  of  a  storm. 

We  pass'd  the  border- forest's  gloomy  belt, 
Behind  which,  tier  on  tier,  the  mighty  range 
Of  the  majestic  Himalayas  towrr'd  in  air, 
Till  their  snow-clad  summits  seem'd  to  pierce  the  sky; 
Had  pass'd  thro'  villages  in  dense  mango  groves — 
Past  temples,  shadow'd  by  great,  tamarind-trees; 
Past  crowded  hamlets  fill'd  with  din  and  dust; 
Past  the  low  country,  covered  with  green  crops; 
Past  patches  of  rice  stubble,  with  dense  grass  between, 
Whence  rose  the  partridge,  plover,  and  the  quail, 
And  florican  and  pea-fowl,  in  dense  flocks; 
Past  groves  of  feathery  bamboo  and  the  palm, 
And  plumy  plaintains  that  conceal  the  huts, 
'Midst  aloe-hedges  festoon'd  with  gay  vines. 

There  were  few  song-birds  flitting  thro'  the  gloom 
Of  wood  arcades,  to  make  them  musical. 
The  songless*horn-bill  dartg  from  tree  to  tree; 
The  big  woodpecker  taps  the  hollow  log, 
With  gorgeous  plumage  glistening  in  the  sun; 
Flights  of  green  parrots  scream  above  your  head ; 
The  golden  oriole  and  the  bulbul  make 
Their  feeble  chirrup,  while  at  times  resounds 
The  melancholy  hoot  of  blinking  owl, 
Or  golden  pigeon's  soft  and  murmurous  coo. 

There,  on  the  borders  of  the  jungle  wild, 
The  hunters  pause  ere  they  invade  its  depths. 
'Twas  a  dark,  deep,  impenetrable  swamp, 
Thick  with  tall  reeds  and  wild  vines  interlac'd — 
Homes  of  the  savage  creatures  of  the  waste — 
The  tiger's  haunt,  fierce  monarch  of  the  woods! 
Here  rang'd  the  brown  hog  deer  in  browsing  herds, 
The  wild  pig  and  the  boar,  with  gnashing  tusks; 
Here  tramp'd  the  black  rhinoceros  on  his  way, 
And  wallow 'd  the  big  buffaloes  at  will; 
The  jackals  rais'd  at  night  their  fearful  howl, 
While  overhead  great  flocks  of  vultures  soar'd. 

And  here  the  hunting  elephants  are  rang'd 
In  line  continuous,  ready  for  the  charge; 


42.  POEMS   OF  THE   BOD  AND   GUN". 

Each  bears  a  howdah  on  his  towering  back, 
Whereon  the  hunter  with  his  rifle  sits, 
To  stop  the  royal  game  with  fatal  aim. 
Soon  the  long  line  advances  thro'  the  wood, 
Trampling  the  bending  branches  and  the  reeds, 
While  loud  the  native  beaters  sound  their  drums, 
And  kindle  into  flames  the  jungle  grass, — 
Kindle  acacia  shrubs  and  thorny  bush. 
So  they  press  on,  a  wall  of  flame  behind, 
While  fast  before  them  flies  the  frantic  game. 

At  length  a  tiger  bounds  away  in  fright, 
And  fast  the  goaded  elephant  pursues. 
As  fast  he  tears  thro'  tangled  jungles  green, 
Like  great  ship  surging  thro'  the  ocean  tides. 
The  Mahouts  rain  their  blows  upon  his  head, 
The  spearmen  prick  him  with  their  lances  keen; 
While  on  thro'  bush  and  brake,  thro'  thorny  scrub, 
Through  stream,  and  down  precipitous  ravine, 
The  headlong  chase  is  urg'd,  till,  brought  to  bay, 
The  tiger  falls  beneath  th'  unerring  shot. 


LION   OF   SOUTH   AFRICA.      (Leo   Africanus.} 

OLOW  pass'd  the  sultry  days  in  Afric  wilds, 

Slow  wan'd  the  moonlit  nights,  slow  flash'd  the  dawns, 
And  still  the  lion  came  not  with  his  heavy  tread 
And  roar,  to  fright  the  desert  space. 
There  was  a  hunter  of  Algerian  fame, 
Gerard,  the  lion-killer,  stout  of  heart 
And  strong  of  limb,  who,  with  his  Arab  guides, 
Waited  and  watch'd  upon  a  granite  ledge 
The  lion's  coming,  wearily  delay'd. 

He  hears  the  roar  increasing  in  its  swell, 
The  trampling  step  that  crushes  leaves  and  twigs, 
And  crash  of  bending  trees  cast  rude  aside, 
And  knows  his  shaggy  foe  hath  left  his  lair, 
And  comes  with  lashing  tail  and  tossing  mane, 
To  quell  who  dares  to  meet  him  face  to  face. 
He  hears  his  stride,  his  roar,  his  breathing  hard 


LION  OF   SOUTH   AFRICA.  43 

Now  twenty  paces  distant,  now  fifteen, 

And  the  stout  hunter's  quickly  throbbing  heart 

With  Hope's  intoxication  wild  doth  beat. 

He  hears  the  latest  step,  he  sees  a  head 

Enormous  from  the  foliage  dense  emerge, 

As  forth  with  grace  commanding  steps  the  beast, 

In  open  glade,  half-seen  and  half  conceal'd. 

Seeing  the  hunter,  his  great  flaming  eyes 

Dilated,  gaze  astonish'd  on  his  foe, 

While  from  his  jaws  immense  he  churns  the  foam. 

The  hunter  for  one  instant  holds  his  aim, 
Then  fires,  and  straightway  peals  a  savage  roar 
Of  agony,  that  stuns  and  frights  the  midnight  wood! 
He  sees  one  paw,  one  mighty  shoulder  then, 
Go  down,  and  dark  dishevell'd  mane, 
Then  all  the  monstrous  body  sinks  to  earth, 
A  lifeless  mass,  outstretch'd  and  grim  in  death. 

Soon  the  glad  news  thro'  all  the  douars  spread, 
And  signal -guns  awaken'd  all  the  plain. 
And  Arabs  throng'd  exultant  o'er  the  hills. 
The  lion-king  was  borne  in  triumph  down 
By  eager  multitudes,  while  bonfires  blaz'd 
And  guns  were  fir'd  and  warlike  music  made, 
And  women  clapp'd  their  hands  and  war-songs  sang, 
While  men  in  long  procession  marclfd  around; 
And  royal  wake  and  revels  high  were  held 
For  lion  of  the  Archon  laid  in  state! 

With  the  next  day-dawn  he  o'erlook'd  the  plain, 
Outstretch'd  for  leagues  far  in  the  desert's  heart, 
All  seam'd  with  rocky  gulch  and  sandy  shelves,* 
And  sprinkled  with  thick  clumps  of  olive  groves, 
And  palms  and  stately  cork  trees,  fair  to  see. 
lie  gaz'd  on  villages  and  cattle  farms, 
Embower'd  in  woods,  and  saw  from  day  to  day 
The  herds  pass  forth  in  lengthen'd  files  to  feed, 
And,  home  returning,  folded  for  the  night; 
But  yet  the  lion  came  not.     There  would  come 
The  wild  hogs  rooting  in  the  forest  glades, 
The  prowling  jackals  and  the  timid  hare 
That  gambol'd  safe  in  fastnesses  of  hills, 


44  POEMS   OP  THE   BOD   AND   GUN, 

Stags  with  their  kingly  crowns  and  stately  tread, 
And  beasts  of  prey,  and  tapirs  with  white  tusks, 
But  o'er  the  ridg'd  plateau  no  lion  came. 

The  hunter  found  in  many  an  open  glade 
The  grassy  couch  the  tawny  beast  had  press'd, 
And  whence  he  stalk'd  when  evening  shadows  fell 
To  prowl  for  prey  around  the  cattle  pens. 
There,  all  the  roots  and  stones  he  had  displac'd 
To  smooth  his  bed,  and  thick  the  ground  was  spread 
With  tree-bark  scrap'd  in  play  by  sharpen'd  claws, 

At  last  the  triumph!     The  soft  twilight  eve 
Had  faded,  and  night's  dusky  shadows  crept 
O'er  glimmering  plains  and  up  the  craggy  cliffs, 
Blackening  the  vistas  of  the  cork-tree  woods; 
And  silence  reign'd  supreme  in  all  the  camps. 
The  ambush'd  hunter  listening  heard  afar 
A  hollow  murmur!    Was  it  but  the  sound 
Of  gusty  breezes  sobbing  thro'  the  leaves, 
Or  voice  of  brawling  torrents  down  the  rocks? 
Was  it  the  wolf's  long  howl,  or  wild  bear's  snarl? 
No;  'twas  the  lion's  muffled  roar  in  dark  ravine 
That  yawns  below,  heard  fitfully  as  he  comes; 
And  as  he  came,  the  Arab  tribesmen  quail'd, 
Azid  and  Ombar  pale  as  sheeted  ghosts; 
Yet  firm  as  rock  the  Gallic  hero  stands, 
Grasping  his  rifle  with  courageous  hands, 
And  quick  the  savage  monster  bites  the  dust. 


HUNTING    IN   CENTRAL   AFRICA— THE   HIPPOPOTA. 
MUS,  OR  SEA-COW.     (Hippos  Potamos.) 

>rPWAS  a  fair  river,  fring'd  with  drooping  reeds 

And  grasses  rank  that  belted  in  its  marge 
A  stream  whose  oozy  shore  was  trampled  thick 
With  spoor  of  buffalo  and  elephant, 
And  numberless  strange  roamers  of  the  wild ; 
And  here  the  ambush'd  hunter  views  unseen 
The  clumsy  hippopotami  disport, 
Swimming  in  sluggish  play  across  the  stream, 


HUNTING  THE  HIPPOPOTAMUS,  OR  SEA-COW,      46 

Or  plunging  like  great  whales  in  boiling  dn-p<. 

At  length  one  mightier  than  the  rest  rolls  up 
His  ebon  Hanks,  and  lifts  its  shapeless  head; 
Then  swift  the  whistling  bullet  finds  its  mark, 
Crashing  its  way  through  adamantine  bone. 
The  wounded  monster  plung'd  beneath  the  tide, 
Then  with  a  floundering  splash  emerg'd  again, 
Blowing  like  porpoise,  spouting  frothy  gore, 
Swimming  in  circles  round  and  round  the  stream, 
Now  on  the  surface,  and  now  diving  deep, 
Lashing  with  tail  and  with  enormous  limbs, 
Till  came  convulsive  the  sharp  pang  of  death. 

Then  came  rejoicing  Balaklai  tribes, 
From  mud-built  kraal,  and  wattled  native  hut, 
In  long  lines  winding  through  the  mazy  groves, 
To  feast  and  fatten  on  abundant  spoil. 
Famish'd,  they  cast  their  skin  karosses  down, 
And  shield  and  battle-club  and  assagai, 
To  cleave  the  flesh  from  bone  and  ivory  tusk, 
To  build  great  bonfires  and  prolong  their  feasts. 

Where  the  Leambye  its  perennial  floods 
Pours  darkling  thro'  the  overarching  woods, 
Dense  woods  with  mosses  and  gray  lichens  drap'd, 
Woods  with  ochilla-weed  engarlanded, 
Lurks  the  great  sea-cow,  black  and  vast  of  bulk, 
An  evil  demon  hideous  to  behold, 
It  ploughs  those  watery  wastes,  or  sluggish  sleeps 
In  sun-dried  mud-flats,  or  in  ambush  lurks. 

Amid  the  bending  rushes  of  the  shore, 
Ofttimes  in  moonlit  nights,  when  dance  and  drum 
Have  ceas'd  in  native  huts  their  festive  sounds, 
And  youth  and  maiden  hasten  to  their  bath 
In  the  deep  river,  the  insatiate  brutes 
Dart  forth  with  gnashing  jaws  to  seize  the  prey. 

In  heats  of  noon  they  haunt  the  open  stream, 
And  in  the  river  shallows  love  to  stalk, 
With  flanks  submerg'd,  and  only  their  black  snouts 
Thrust  from  the  water;  then  they  sudden  plunge 
And  roll  in  clumsy  gambols  to  and  fro, 
Or  dive  to  munch  the  grass  that  grows  below. 


46  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

When  night  draws  near  the  forest  hunter  goes, 
Arm'd  to  entrap  them.     Nightly  turns  the  herd 
From  the  dark  river  to  the  open  plain, 
Where  springs  the  juicy  grass  they  love  to  crop. 
Thither,  in  path  direct,  thro'  tangled  thorns, 
O'er  rock  and  fallen  trees  they  bend  their  way, 
Returning  ere  the  dawn  to  lake  and  stream, 
Where,  hid  in  thickets  of  impervious  shade, 
The  daring  hunter  lurks  to  meet  his  game. 

Ofttimes  those  savage  brutes  in  frenzied  rage, 
With  bellowings  like  the  volleying  thunder-peal 
Mingle  in  bloody  duel  on  the  wave. 
Then  fierce  the  combat;  with  their  eyes  aflame 
They  seize  with  jaw,  they  stab  with  pointed  tusk, 
Advance,  retreat,  till  boils  the  ensanguin'd  wave, 
And  the  calm  night  re-echoes  with  their  groans, 
Till  sinks  the  vanquish'd,  gor'd  and  torn  with  wounds. 


WATCHING  FOR  ELEPHANTS  AT   NIGHT   IN  SOUTH 
AFRICA. 

Tj^OR  days  the  hunter  over  open  plains 

Fring'd  by  dense  clumps  of  dwarfish  forest-trees, 
Where  aromatic  shrubs  and  grasses  grew; 
Had  follow'd  the  red  lion's  heavy  track 
And  the  great  elephant's  majestic  trail, 
The  spotted  leopard  and  hyena  gaunt, 
And  hippopotamus  in  sluggish  pool, 
The  fleeing  ostrich  and  the  brindled  gnu, 
The  nimble  spring-bok  and  black  antelope, 
Pallah  and  zebra,  and  the  tall  giraffe, 
And  now  he  ceas'd  the  marsh  and  pitch'd  the  camp. 

The  panting  ox  from  heavy  yoke  was  loos'd, 
The  weary  horse  was  tether'd  on  the  plain, 
The  native  tribesmen  rais'd  the  sheltering  tent, 
And  lit  the  evening  fires  for  social  feasts, 
And  all  were  glad  in  this  secluded  spot 
To  seek  repose,  or  watch  for  prowling  game* 
'Twas  a  wild  ravine,  parting  the  bare  cliffs 


WATCHING   FOR   ELEPHANTS   AT   NIGHT.  47 

With  gulf  impassible,  win-re  play'd  a  fount 
(lushing  from  cavern'd  rocks  and  pebbed  slopes, 
And  pouring  thro'  the  shades  ;i  crystal  stream, 
That  made  the  lonely  glen  enchanted  ground. 

Sometimes  the  vigils  of  the  night  began 
At  twilight  hour,  when  sank  the  royal  sun 
Superb,  to  rest;  when  palm-trees  droop'd  in  sleep, 
And  motionless  the  sandal-forests  slept, 
And  came  the  hovering,  gayly  plumag'd  flocks. 
Brown  partridges  and  mottled  guinea-fowl, 
The  purple  pigeon  and  the  turtle-dove, 
And  the  gay,  green  parrots,  chattering  in  the  grove, 
To  taste  the  limpid  waters  of  the  stream, 
And  fold  in  perfect  peace  their  downy  wings. 
Then  came  the  game,  when  midnight's  dusky  shape, 
Like  weird  enchantress,  wav'd  her  ebon  wand, 
And  steep'd  the  drowsy  air  in  wizard  glooms; 
And  oft  the  hunters  watrh'd,  when  thunders  rav'd, 
And  flash'd  the  blue,  swift  lightnings  in  the  sky, 
Illuminating  wide  the  desert  space, 
And  peopling  all  the  arcades  of  the  grove 
With  glimmering,  spectral  lights  and  phantom  shades. 

Here  came  the  elephant,  the  forest  lord; 
Mightiest  of  all  the  vast  gregarious  herds 
That  range  o'er  nature's  pasture-plains  and  woods. 
He  fears  no  challenge,  save  perchance  at  night 
The  tawny  lion's  hollow-mutter'd  roar 
Or  savage  hulloo,  where  the  swarming  tribes 
Of  Bechuanas  come  with  rattling  spear. 

Ranging  the  tangled  wild,  he  snaps  the  trees 
As  on  with  ponderous  bulk  he  ploughs  his  way, 
Pausing  at  times  with  nice  fastidious  taste 
To  crop  the  jucy  buds  or  spicy  leaves; 
He  plucks  the  ripe  fruits  from  the  drooping  bough, 
He  digs  with  ivory  tusk  the  turfy  ground, 
Feeding  on  tubers  sweet  and  bulbous  root, 
That  in  the  fertile  soil  luxuriant  grow, 
Or  in  the  grassy  pastures  stops  to  taste 
The  rinded  melons,  ripening  in  the  heats. 

Here  in  the  dark  ravine,  by  sluggish  pool, 


48  POEMS  OF  THE  KOD  AND 


The  hunter  watches  from  the  dusk  till  dawn, 
Ambush'd  in  reeds  and  circled  in  with  shades, 
Trusting  in  valiant  heart  and  rifled  tube. 
Waiting,  he  hears  the  heavy  trampling  step 
Splash  thro'  the  mire  and  snap  the  rotting  branch  — 
Hears  the  shrill  trumpetings  advancing  near, 
And  drops  of  water,  spurted  from  the  trunk; 
Discerns  at  last,  like  vast,  gigantic  shade, 
The  swaying  elephant  loom  dim  and  large, 
With  flapping  ears  and  high  uplifted  trunk,  — 
And  then  the  blinding  flash  and  ringing  steel  1 
Oft  in  the  mid-day  heats,  in  depth  of  woods, 
Hunting  with  gallant  horse  and  yelping  pack 
And  shouting  tribes,  the  forest  roaming  game, 
He  came  where  up-plough'd  ground  and  broken  boughs 
Proclaim'd  their  spoor;  and  here  he  found  the  herd 
Of  big  bull-elephants,  a  host  at  bay. 
Then  rose  the  shout  of  men,  the  yell  of  hound, 
Whistled  the  spear  and  rang  the  volleying  gun, 
While  panic-struck  the  herds  charge  frantic  on, 
Level  the  snapping  tree-trunks  in  their  course, 
And  fill  with  shrilly  trumpetings  the  air, 
Speeding  with  tails  aloft  and  swinging  tusks; 
While  here  and  there  a  bleeding  victim  reels 
And  staggering  halts,  then  crashes  to  the  ground. 


RHINOCEROS-HUNTING. 

T^OR  days  the  hunter  march'd  o'er  wooded  hills 

And  mountain  ranges,  frowning  like  great  forts 
With  buttress'd  wall  and  granite  parapet ; 
And  oft  had  met  amid  those  savage  scenes 
Fair,  blooming  valleys  sown  with  scarlet  flowers 
And  shrubs  delicious  with  their  honey'd  sweets, 
Shady  with  thickets  of  the  sandal-wood, 
And  delicate  acacias,  on  whose  tops 
The  camelopards  tall  delight  to  brouse ; 
There  oft  had  met  the  bounding  antelope, 
And  shaggy  buffaloes,  whose  headlong  charge 


KIIINOCKKOS-IirNTING.  -I'.' 

And  muffled  roar  like  earthquake  shook  the  ground. 

At  last,  emerging  from  the  mountain  base, 

He  saw  far  stretching  to  th'  horizon's  verge, 

A  rolling  plain  of  limitless  extent. 

And  here,  beside  a  stream,  he  piteh'd  his  camp. 

Dark  iguanas,  prrrh'd  on  pendent  branch, 
Sleep  in  the  sunshine  in  the  noon-day  heats, 
Or  plunge  in  wave,  alarm'd  by  clipping  oar; 
And  there  the  armor- plated  crocodiles 
F»ask  on  the  black  mud-islands  in  repose, 
Or  lash  with  iron  tails  the  slothful  pool; 
Tin-re  serpents  venomous  and  twisting  snakes 
Hang  from  the  branches  or  infest  the  swamps; 
And  there  the  musky  hippopotami, 
Frightful  with  rounded  head  and  gnashing  tusk, 
Wallow  at  will,  and  fright  with  snorting  roar. 

The  summer  suns  of  centuries  had  seen 
Those  countless  herds  in  woods  primeval  roam, 
Wide  over  grassy  plains  and  shrubby  slopes; 
Herds  that  had  scoru'd  the  rude  barbarian  hordes, 
Who  came  with  shaft  and  slender  spear  to  slay, 
Hut  tied  from  lion's  roar,  and  borcle's  horn, 
Or  the  mad  charge  of  trampling  elephant. 

By  this  clear  watercourse  with  jungles  fring'd, 
Border'd  by  yellow  sands  that  bore  impress 
Of  lion's  spoor,  and  elephant's  great  foot, 
And  hoof  of  buffalo  or  tall  giraffe, 
And  trail  of  all  the  wanderers  of  the  waste, 
The  hunters  watch'd.     Sometimes  wTould  come  a  troop 
Of  black-fac'd  baboons  chattering  in  the  wood, 
Zebras  and  blue  hartebeests  would  caper  round, 
Herds  of  doe-pallahs  slow  would  canter  by, 
Led  by  some  princely  buck  of  stately  head; 
And  borele,  the  black  rhinoceros, 
Would  come  with  brandish'd  horn  and  angry  roar; 
The  shrill- voic'd  jackals  their  sad  coronachs 
Would  raise,  and  gaunt  hyenas  howl; 
There  frequent  came,  fast  crashing  thro'  the  wood, 
The  bulky  buffalo,  whose  massive  horn 
Form'd  shield,  like  runged  oak,  to  guard  his  brow; 
4 


50  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 

And  with  surpassing  dignity  there  came 
The  camelopards,  of  colossal  height, 
Stalking  with  lengthened  stride  and  soaring  head; 
All  these  strange  creatures  of  the  wilderness 
Came  to  the  hunter's  stream  for  sport  or  drink, 
Soon  with  their  dripping  blood  the  wave  to  stain. 

So,  night  by  night,  near  dark,  secluded  pool, 
Or  in  the  blaze  of  noon,  o'er  boundless  plains 
Sown  with  bush-grass  and  aromatic  herb, 
Or  in  some  thorny  grove  or  ancient  wood, 
The  hunter  met  and  slew  borele  grim. 
Not  without  perils!     Once,  in  tangled  swamp, 
The  black  rhinoceros  had  turn'd  to  bay, 
Wounded  and  maddened;  high  he  toss'd  his  horn 
And  red  his  wicked  eye  with  murder  gleam'd, 
Snorting  with  wrath  and  trampling  fierce  the  ground 
Then  with  a  headlong  charge  he  frenzied  came, 
While  horse  and  rider  fled  with  panic  speed, 
The  horrid,  horny  snout  in  hot  pursuit! 

And  well  that  day  the  gallant  desert  barb 
Maintain'd  the  matchless  fame  of  Arab  blood ; 
No  need  for  jambock-lash  or  gory  spear, 
When  life  and  liberty  were  all  before, 
And  gashing  tusk  and  iron  hoof  behind ! 
Ah!  then  no  mortal  weapon  might  avail, 
Nought  but  a  speed  miraculous  to  save! 
E'en  the  vast  elephant,  supreme  in  strength, 
Would  wheel  his  dusky  flanks  and  flee  amain, 
And  crested  lion  of  the  Afric  waste 
Would  droop  his  shaggy  mane  and  slink  away! 

Watching  the  waters  on  one  moonlit  night, 
A  black  rhinoceros  came  down  to  drink, 
Or  wade  and  wallow  in  the  gelid  wave, 
And  there  the  hunter's  rifle  laid  him  low. 
Serene  was  night  with  moonlight's  silver  flood, 
And  bright  the  isles  that  stud  the  glassy  stream ; 
No  breeze  to  stir  the  aloe's  thorny  tops, 
To  rustle  the  tall  palms  that  lined  the  brink, 
Or  toss  th'  acacia  leaves  that  swoon'd  in  sleep. 
The  parrots  green  no  longer  mock'd  the  ear, 


AI'KH   AN    (JA.MK — Till!    (i  K.MSHOK.  51 

And  monkeys  brown  that  sprang  along  the  trees 
And  chatter'd  all  day  long,  were  liush'd  in  rest. 

But  sudden  change  canu-  o'er  the  tranquil  scene, 
\Vlnn  >i.\  great  lions  stalk'd  from  out  the  wood, 
Follow 'd  by  jackals  and  hyenas  grim, 
Who  scented  from  afar  the  slaughter'*!  beast. 
The  lions  peacefully  the  banquet  shar'd, 
Tearing  the  carcass  with  their  dripping  claws; 
But  fierce  the  meaner  beasts  would  snarl  and  fight, 
And  for  each  morsel  red  contend  around, 
And  till  with  fiendish  laugh  and  scream  and  howl 
The  dim  and  drowsy  solitudes  of  night; 
Nor  ceas'd  the  clamor  till  the  reddening  East 
Fluslfd  the  whole  air  with  roses  of  the  morn, 


AFRICAN  GAME— THE  GEMSBOK. 

A/TOST  beautiful  those  roving  tribes, 

The  antelopes,  the  bounding  deer, 
The  wild  deer  of  the  Afric  land, 
Bo  tleet,  so  graceful  in  career. 

The  blessbok  and  the  springbok  swift, 
The  oryx,  steinbok,  and  hartbeest, 
The  quagga,  pal  lab,  and  the  gnu, 
That  o'er  the  boundless  pastures  feast, 
Have  since  Creation's  dawning  rang'd 
Those  grassy  pastures,  green  and  vast; 
And  countless  summers  have  beheld 
Those  wild  herds  speeding  far  and  fast. 

Free  denizens  of  wood  and  glade, 
Of  prairie  broad,  of  flowery  plain, 
The  savage  tribes  may  scarce  molest; 
Their  spears  and  arrows  are  in  vain. 
They  range  the  mountain  foot,  they  plunge 
In  hidden  gorge,  in  ravine  dim, 
They  speed  across  the  craggy  slopes, 
Along  the  bending  grass  they  skim. 
By  fountains  in  the  desert's  heart 
Where  leans  the  palm-tree  o'er  the  wave, 


52  POEMS   OF  THE   EOD   AKD   GUK. 

They  come  consuming  thirst  to  quench, 
Their  panting  flanks  to  dip  and  lave. 

The  blessbok,  noblest  of  the  herds, 
Loveliest  with  all  the  rainbow  dyes, 
Purple  and  violet  and  brown, 
Like  mingled  glories  of  the  skies, 
Is  e'er  so  shy,  so  fleet  of  foot, 
That  vain  is  hunter's  hot  pursuit. 

The  black  wild-beest,  a  bolder  race, 
Fly  not  with  all  the  flying  crew, 
But  wheel  in  mazy  circles  round, 
Tempting  the  hunter  to  pursue; 
In  evolutions  intricate, 
Like  dragoons  skirmishing  in  war, 
They  circling  caper  round  the  hunt, 
Now  swooping  near,  now  scatter'd  far. 
While  hunters  charge  one  herd  in  front 
Another  gathers  in  the  way, — 
Fierce  cossacks  of  the  desert  space, 
Now  menacing,  now  brought  to  bay. 


THE   GORILLA.     (Nyena.) 

TTIGH  beats  the  hunter's  heart  when  all  the  night, 

Hid  in  some  copse  at  edge  of  wood, 
He  watches  the  dim  plain  for  wandering  game. 
Still  sleeps  the  forest,  save  when  swells  the  voice 
Of  prowling  lion,  or  hyena's  howl, 
Or  cracks  the  twig  beneath  some  trampling  hoof. 
Soft  falls  the  moonlight,  filtering  thro'  the  roof 
Of  the  dense -matted  foliage — soft  it  gilds, 
With  shimmering  glory,  all  the  desert  space, 
Shining  on  island-groves  and  grassy  slopes. 

From  time  to  time,  like  drifting  shadows,  pass 
In  lengthen'd  line  the  browsing  buffalo; 
The  eland,  gnu,  and  the  black  antelope 
Glide  past ;  the  bulky  elephant, 
Swaying  his  tushes,  crushes  thro'  the  glade; 
The  black  rhinoceros  stalks  unwieldy  by, 


TIM:  BOBILLA,  5.3 

Seeking  sequcster'd  marsh  or  deep  lagoon. 

Tumultuous  beats  the  hunter's  throbbing  heart 
When  tlirills  the  forest  with  (Jorilla's  roar, 
And  thus  one  gallant  forester*  recites 
How  first  he  slew  the  king  of  Afric  hind : 

For  days  with  his  swart  savages  he  track  \1 
The  labyrinthine,  unknown  wilderness, 
Seeking  Gorilla;  track'd  him  o'er  rough  hills, 
Through  mountainous  defile  and  rocky  gulch, 
Where  mossy  boulders  chok'd  the  rugged  way. 
They  clainber'd  granite  cone  and  steepy  cliff, 
Clinging  to  swinging  vine  and  drooping  bough: 
They  skirted  ravines,  where  the  pouring  fall 
For  ages  long  had  thunder'd  all  unheard; 
They  cross'd  dank  swamps  and  morasses. 
Where  reptiles  venomous  assnil'd  the  way. 

At  last!  a  savage  bark,  a  hollow  roar, 
Muttering  like  rolling  thunder,  shook  the  air, 
And  with  their  weird  reverberations  woke 
The  sleeping  echoes,  warning  that  the  lord 
Of  the  wide  wilderness  held  there  his  reign. 
On  came  the  monster,  uttering  fiendish  cries, 
Those  quick  and  bark-like  shrieks  so  full  of  rago, 
So  like  demoniac  yell  of  insane  man. 
In  the  dim  light  his  Satyr-features  fierce, 
His  devilish  eyes  of  baleful,  gloomy  gray, 
And  grinding  teeth, "might  well  proclaim  a  form 
Sent  from  infernal  shades  to  walk  the  earth. 

On,  step  by  step,  he  came!  with  brawny  fist 
He  smote  his  hairy  breast  in  frantic  rage, 
Until  it  rang  like  hollow  drum  of  war. 
A  frightful  sound!     Again,  again  his  roar 
Peal'd  fiercely  from  his  cavernous,  deep  chest, 
As  on  he  came.     His  eyes  fiash'd  lurid  fire; 
The  short  black  hair  upon  his  forehead  rose, 
Twitching  convulsive,  while  each  grinning  fang 
Churn'd  the  white  froth,  and  gnash'd  with  hellish  rage. 

Straight  on  he  came,  quick-beating  at  his  breast 

*  Mons.  Du  Chaillu. 


54  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Still  with  redoubled  roar  and  frenzied  eye, 
Till  rang  the  shot;  then  with  appalling  shriek 
So  human,  yet  so  brutal  in  its  sound, 
The  monster  reel'd  and  stiffen'd  on  the  sod! 
Stark,  grim,  and  bloody,  terrible  in  death, 
Gorilla  dies!     And  long  the  hunter  views 
With  wonder  and  with  awe  those  muscles  vast, 
Knotted  in  swelling  bunches,  the  vast  limbs 
That  might  the  tawny  lioness  o'ermatch. 
And  the  strong  hands,  whose  claw-like  hooks  might  rend 
Man's  puny  body,  as  with  banded  steel. 


GIRAFFE-HUNTING   IN   CENTRAL  AFRICA.     (Giraffa.) 

TN  far  'Mid- Africa,  where  woods 

inimitable  weave  their  gloom, 
Where  the  palmyra  lifts  its  crown 

Of  verdure  and  its  flowery  plume, 
Mimosas  yield  their  honey'd  food, 
And  mopan  and  mowana  wood 

Mingle  their  interlacing  screen, 
And  chief,  the  acacias,  tendef-leav'd, 

Flutter  their  pennoucelles  of  green — 
There  fleet  and  far,  secure  in  shade, 

The  giant  camelopards  rove; 
Stupendous  monarchs  of  the  glade, 

The  stateliest  denizens  of  the  grove. 

Oft  they  forsake  their  woody  haunt 

For  open  lawn  and  grassy  slope, 
Vast  level  plains,  the  water-shed 

Of  streams,  where  flocks  of  antelope 
Rival  in  speed  the  giraffe  herd, 
Each  fleeter  than  the  skimming  bird. 
An  English  hunter  thus  relates 

How  first  the  noble  game  he  knew, 
Leading  his  savage  cavalcade 

Of  Hottentots,  a  motley  crew. 


.,!i;.\!  |-i:-lll'N  IING    IN    CKNTII.M.    AIKICA.  5f> 

When  first  the  apparation  grand 

Of  the  tall  beast  before  him  r 
He  dccm'd  it  spiky,  wilher'd  branch 

Of  palm  that  in  the  desert  grows; 
Hut  soon  the  object,  gliding  fast 

Above  the  topmost  shiubbery. 
Like  .-piring  shaft  of  plumy  pine, 

Told  that  the  long-sought  prey  was  nigh. 

Hi-  spurr'd  in  chase;  before  him  sped, 

With  clumsy  gait  but  matchless  speed, 
The  giraffe,  with  its  black  tail  curv'd, 

Outstripping  the  pursuing  steed. 
lie  tle\v  -he  sail'd,  like  gliding  ship, 

Swift  by  the  gale  o'er  surges  roll'd. 
With  swanlike  neck  and  sloping  side, 

That  in  the  sunbeam  gleam'd  like  gold. 
Stretching  away  with  mighty  stride 

O'er  treacherous  swamp  and  rotten  soil, 
Where  grass  and  tangled  vines  conceal'd 

The  gaping  fissures  with   their  coil, 
Headlong  and  frantic  thro'  the  wood 

Thunder  pursuer  and  pursued. 

Twice  was  the  towering  form  conceal'd 

r.y  bark  of  intervening  trees, 
And  twice  from  out  the  labyrinth 

The  toiling,  lumbering  game  he  sees; 
Now  tilting  over  eminence, 

Topping  the  ridge  with  gallant  stride; 
Now  plung'd  in  hollows  of  the  plain, 

Whose  dipping  slopes  the  quarry  hide. 

At  length,  a  shallow  stream  is  reach'd. 

Whose  sands  its  spider  legs  delay, 
And  here  the  foaming. steed  hath  brought 

His  rider  even  with  the  prey; 
Then  the  big  ritle  is  uprais'd 

Against  the  dappled  creature's  side. 
A  shot— a  groan— and  headlong  falls 

The  giraffe,  red  with  slaughter  dy'd. 


56  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD    AND   GUN. 


CARIBOU-HUNTING.      (Tarangus  zangifer.) 

T\7"HEN  hot  the  sultry  heats  intense 

Bake  the  dry  soil,  the  brooklets  parch, 
In  brakes  impervious  of  the  pine, 
The  cedar-thicket,  and  the  larch, 
The  mighty  caribou's  retreat, 
Seeking  a  shelter  from  the  heat. 
To  these  dim-wooded  fastnesses 
The  hunter  goes  afoot  to  chase, 
Without  the  help  of  horse  or  hound, 
The  giants  of  the  Cervine  race. 

Tormented  by  the  insect-swarms, 
The  black-flies,  the  green  woodland's  pest, 
The  caribous  seek  lonely  pond 
And  forest  lakelet  for  their  rest. 
There  wading  far  out  in  the  wave, 
With  nose  dipt  even  with  the  tide, 
Secure  from  his  infesting  foes, 
He  wallowing  bathes  his  reeking  hide, 
Feeding  luxurious  on  the  leaves 
Of  lotus  on  the  stream  that  heaves. 

And  here,  ere  dappled  is  the  east, 
The  hunter  lurks  upon  its  path, 
Watchful  to  catch  its  trampling  tread, 
Fast  by  its  early  forest-bath. 
Watchful  he  notes  the  crackling  twig, 
The  faintest  rustling  of  the  hedge; 
Then  drops  with  his  unerring  aim 
The  quarry  at  the  water's  edge. 

When  far  the  winter  snows  lie  deep,i 
And  woods  are  heavy  with  their  freight, 
And  shapeless  drift  and  brittle  crust 
No  longer  will  sustain  their  weight, 
Troops  of  swift-footed  caribou 
Form  for  their  homes  their  "  winter  yard" — 
Trampling  with  hoof  the  heaping  snows, 
As  threshing-floor  compact  and  hard; 
Shelter'd  by  hemlock,  fir,  and  pine, 


CARIBOU-HUNTING.  57 

That  droop  around  their  plumes  of  green, 

They  crop  their  juicy  canopy,— 

The  shoots  that  form  their  leafy  screen. 

Mounted  on  snow-shoes,  with  their  food 
And  blankets  on  light  sledges  pack'd, 
The  hunters  of  the  wild  stag  cross 
The  snow's  immeasurable  tract. 
For  leagues  they  travel— pleasant  task 
Is  theirs  to  form  the  camp  at  night; 
To  stack  the  arms;  to  fell  a  pine 
For  shelter,  soaring  to  vast  height; 
To  heap  the  fresh  untrodden  snow 
To  windward  like  a  rampart  wall; 
To  feed  the  camp-fire  till  it  flames 
Like  furnace  o'er  the  hemlocks  tall; 
To  spread  the  couch  with  fragrant  tips 
Of  spicy  cedar,  sweet  for  rest. 
Then,  when  some  Indian  guide  hath  ta'cn, 
Thro'  frozen  lake,  of  trout  a  score, 
Some  hunter  hath  brought  in  a  brace 
of  the  ruil'd  grouse,  to  swell  the  store. 
The  bubbling  pan  and  roasting-spit 
Invite  them  to  the  welcome  board, 
Where  high  the  savory  meat  is  pil'd, 
And  fast  the  generous  cup  is  pour'd; 
Then  pipe  is  smok'd  and  tale  is  told, 
And  each  one,  wrapp'd  in  blanket's  fold, 
Sleeps  sound  beneath  the  winter  sky, 
Till  dappled  morning  greets  the  eye. 

With  day-dawn  is  the  hunt  resum'd, 
1'ntil  the  browsing  "  yard  "  is  found; 
Then  quick  uuharness'd  is  the  sled, 
The  snow-shoe  from  each  foot  unbound  ; 
Then  each  and  all  with  throbbing  heart, 
Grasping  the  rille,  cautious  creep, 
Thursting  the  tangling  twigs  apart 
To  where  the  yarded  victim^  sleep. 

A  noble  sight!    Gigantic  bulls 
Flapping  their  huge  ears  they  behold; 
Licking  their  glossy  hides,  like  kine 


58  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUK. 

In  rural  farmer's  cattle  fold; 
While  cows  on  tender  fir-tops  browse, 
Or  lazy  here  and  there  repose, 
Chewing  the  cud,  unmindful  all 
Of  cruel  death  and  lurking  foes. 
Then  comes  the  conflict — rifles  flash, 
And  all  is  wild,  tumultuous  fright; 
The  wounded,  bellowing  madly,  dash 
Thro'  the  dense  wood  in  headlong  flight! 
While  many  a  forest  monarch  lies 
Bleeding  and  struggling  till  he  dies, 
Eucrimsoning  with  spouting  gore 
The  forest's  white  unspotted  floor. 


THE  HUNTER  IN  CENTRAL  AFRICA. 

rPIIE  hunter  roam'd  far  in  the  broad  Afric  land. 

Where  the  pallahs  and  gnus  are  gather'd  in  band, 
And  the  oryx  and  springboks  and  sable  hartbeest 
Over  green  boundless  pastures  collect  to  the  feast: 
Where  herds  of  wild  elephants  crash  thro'  the  woods, 
And  the  black  rhinoceros  wallows  in  floods, 
Where  the  lion  and  leopard  devastate  the  plain, 
And  hyenas  and  jackals  feed  on  their  slain; 
Where  the  stately  giraffe  and  swift  antelope 
Sweep  the  vales  at  the  base  of  the  grand  mountain-slope. 

How  fair  are  those  woodlands,  those  pastures  of  green, 
Where  the  interlac'd  boughs  weave  an  emerald  screen, 
So  deep  in  their  gloom  that  scarce  may  the  light 
Pierce  the  roof  of  the  grove  with  penciliugs  bright! 
There  boundless  the  iron-wood  forests  extend 
And  the  lofty  acacias  gracefully  bend, 
And  mimosas  and  willows  and  fragrant  white-thorn, 
Whose  rich  yellow  blossoms  the  woodlands  adorn. 
Where  ga}7  blooming  flowers  embroider  the  grass, 
And  birds  of  rare  plumes  and  sweet  melodies  pass. 

In  the  belt  of  the  woods,  with  their  green  colonnades. 
The  fern  and  the  passion-flower  brighten'd  the  glades. 


TIIK    IIUNTKK    I\    (T.NTKAI.    AFKIOA.  59 

O!  noble  the  i^anic  of  this  African  huul — 
The  lion,  the  leopard,  the  elephant  grand, 
The  wild-hoar  and  buffaloes  sweeping  the  plain, 
Their  measureless  pastures,  their  endless  domain. 

The  hunt  T  takes  rifle,  then  summons  his  men, 
Beehuanas  and  Bushmen,  from  mountain  and  glen; 
Tall,  stalwart,  and  lithe  as  leopards  in  tlight, 
Some  true  as  the  steel,  some  trembling  with  fright. 
He  bids  them  take  knife  and  sharp  assegai 
When  the  herd  of  wild  elephants  threaten  the  way. 
Bull  elephants,  ann'd  with  tushes  so  strong 
That  trample  and  crush  as  they  thunder  along, 
So  majestic  in  stature,  colossal  in  height, 
It  is  peril  and  death  to  meet  them  in  light. 

In  these  vales  and  ravines  and  forests  of  green 
The  foot-paths  of  elephants  thickly  arc  seen, 
Where  for  ages  untold  these  monsters  have  trod, 
And  whose  white,  bleaching  bones  still  sprinkle  the  sod. 
'Mid  jungles  of  speckboom  their  relics  are  found, 
Where  mimosa  thickets  o'ershadow  the  ground; 
Where  the  yellow-wood,  cedar,  and  iron-wood  grow, 
Crown'd  with  vine  wreaths  perennial,  a  wonderful  show. 

'Tis  Tao,  the  lion,  is  monarch  of  all! 
Whose  roarings  terrific  the  Bushmen  appal! 
When  you  meet  him  alone  in  the  forests,  beware; 
Beware  when  at  night  he  stalks  forth  from  his  lair. 
How  majestic  in  death! — the  eyeballs  of  fire, 
The  great  rounded  head,  so  frightful  in  ire, 
The  vast  massive  arms,  the  black  shaggy  mane. 
The  sharp  crooked  claws,  blood-red  with  the  slain; 
The  powerful  jaws,  the  symmetry  line, 
In  beauty  so  perfect  in  every  line; 
And  you  feel  that  the  noblest  of  prizes  is  won 
When  lie  lies  grim  in  death,  the  spoil  of  your  gun. 

Ah!  hear  him  at  night  when  all  nature  is  still 
And  darkness  and  silence  hold  forest  and  hill; 
Hear  his  low,  growling  moan,  his  full,  solemn  roar, 
Now  muffled,  now  hoarse,  like  the  surge  on  the  shore; 
Hear  the  roar  of  two  troops  that  meet  at  the  brink 
Of  the  forest-shut  fountain  its  crystal  to  drink. 


GO  POEMS   OF  THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

Hear  the  roar  of  defiance,  so  fierce,  so  intense 
That  it  deafens  and  daunts  the  terrified  sense; 
Then  say  that  no  thunder  that  rolls  in  the  sky 
Hath  a  tone  so  sublime  as  this  menacing  cry! 


GRIZZLY-BEAR  HUNTING.     (Ursm  JwrrWii) 

'IV/TID  scenes  magnificently  grand 

In  forest-ground  and  mountain-land, 
Savage  and  solitary  lord 
Of  dark  ravine  and  pastures  broad, 
The  grizzly  bear,  beyond  the  dome 
Of  Rocky  Mountains,  holds  its  home. 

Far  o'er  that  world  of  icy  peaks, 

Of  herbless  crag  and  precipice, 
Where  scarce  a  stunted  shrub  may  throw 

Its  pennon  o'er  the  void  abyss, 
Higher  than  vulture  wing  sweeps  the  woods, 

Or  eagle  from  his  eyrie  soars, 
The  she  bear  rears  her  tawny  brood, 

Pacing  the  ledges'  granite  floors. 


More  fierce  thnn  tiger  of  Bengal 

Or  lion  of  the  Afric  coast; 
For  one  will  fly  the  step  of  man, 

Cowering,  in  tangled  coverts  lost; 
The  other  slink  away  at  shout 
Of  savage  chief  and  rabble  rout. 
But  this  grand  monarch  hath  no  dread 

Of  mortal  art  or  human  power; 
For,  arm'd  with  claws  of  crooked  steel, 

And  fangs  like  tushes  of  the  boar, 
It  faces  with  terrific  growls 

Whatever  life  invades  its  den — 
Whether  a  single  foe  that  prowls 

Around,  or  multitudes  of  men. 


M;I//LY-IU:AII  HUNTING. 

Yet  sonic  brave  hunters  of  the  wild, 

Alone  and  single-handed,  dare 
To  seek  him  in  his  darkling  den, 

Defy  him  in  his  cavern  lair, 
Anu'd  only  with  his  rille  true, 

Valiant  of  heart  and  firm  of  nerve, 
He  tracks  him.  through  defiles  sublime 

To  where  the  cave-mouth  opes  its  curve, 
\Vell  knowing  that  the  brute  doth  dwell 
All  winter  in  that  secret  cell. 

Stern,  then,  he  strips  him  for  the  light, 
Careful  prepares  his  pitch  torchlight; 
Looks  to  his  weapon,  sure  its  load 
Is  certain  on  his  dreadful  road 
(For  life  and  limb  are  on  the  cast; 
One  failure,  and  it  is  his  last); 
Then  creeps  as  into  yawning  grave, 
Down  the  dark  pathway  of  the  cave. 
With  steady  progress  on  he  goes, 

The  red  torch  Hashing  out  its  glare; 
He  sees  each  dripping  rock  and  crag  . 

And  the  black  outline  of  the  bear. 

The  brute,  arous'd  from  drowsy  rest, 
Toward  the  tlaming  beacon  stalks, 

Sniffing,  amaz'd,  the  tainted  air 
As  onward  to  his  fate  he  walks; 

Speed  true,  good  ball!  for  if  it  fail, 

No  human  valor  might  avail! 

The  brute  so  close  hath  near'd  the  flame, 

His  breath  may  fan  the  hunter's  cheek. 
But  not  a  tremor  shakes  his  frame, 

No  pallid  damps  a  tremor  speak; 
But,  sure  the  aim,  the  deadly  ball 

Rends  its  swift  way  through  eye  and  brain 
The  hero  in  that  dismal  hall 

Rejoices  o'er  the  monster  slain. 


62  POEMS    OF   THE    HOD    AND    GUN. 


ELEPHANT-HUNTING  IN  THE   ISLAND   OF  CEYLON. 


mountain  -girdled  plains  of  steep  decline, 
Seam'd  here  and  there  witli  precipices  steep, 
Descend  in  narrow  belts  of  jungle  to  the  stream. 
Amid  those  rugged  grass-lands  lie  the  elk, 
'Mid  arid  ravines  and  the  forest-shades, 
And  here  in  fastnesses  of  wood  and  rock 
The  mighty  elephant  hath  found  a  home. 

There  thro'  those  awful  gorges  torrents  roar, 
And  bellowing  cataracts  plunge  amain, 
Prone  thro'  the  narrow  chasms  of  the  cliffs. 
One  plunge!  then,  without  ledge  to  break  the  fall, 
It  downward  shoots,  —  at  first  like  crystal  glass, 
Then  like  a  broken  cataract  of  snow; 
Then  all  is  seething  foam  and  clouds  of  mist! 

In  Afric  lands  the  elephant  delights 
In  level  downs  where  grows  his  chosen  food, 
The  juicy  mimosas,  but  in  Ceylon  realms 
He  seeks  the  sides  of  jungle-mantled  mounts, 
Threading  the  rugged  alleys  of  the  rocks. 
There,  amid  jungle-flowers  or  soft  morass, 
Deep  lakes,  or  muddy  tanks  or  shallow  pools, 
With  cautious  stride  he  tramples  on  his  way. 

Noble  these  scenes  of  nature  !     With  great  woods 
Thro'  which  the  boiling  river  ploughs  its  way, 
Forests  whose  interlacing  boughs  extend 
Above,  and  cast  dark  shadows  o'er  the  wave; 
Waves  brighten'd  by  the  gleam  of  darting  fish. 
These  great  beasts  of  the  wild  at  night  forsake 
The  jungles,  and  thro'  forests  pass  to  drink 
And  bathe  in  stream,  then  seek  their  haunts  at  dawn. 

The  hunters  with  their  native  beater-scouts 
Were  out  at  day-dawn,  tramping  thro'  the  plains 
And  streams,  then  halted  in  an  opening  of  the  woods, 
Awaiting  breathless  th'  approaching  herds. 
No  pen  or  tongue  that  grand  scene  may  describe,  — 
The  trumpeting  and  roaring  of  the  herd, 
Mingled  with  shrill  screams  of  remoter  herds; 


A  I    ir.MNAI.    SI'UKTS.  63 

The  snap  of  stems  and  branches  of  the  trees, 
The  rushing  sound  of  live  tops,  as  if  storms 
Were  howling  thro'  them  as  the  herd  press  on. 
The  forest  edge  was  fac'd  with  network  dense 
Of  trailing  creepers,  forming  a  vast  screen, 
That  clot  If  d  the  wood  as  ivies  clasp  a  wall. 
Behind  their  leafy  veil  the  great  herds  came, 
The  forests  trembling  with  the  mighty  charge. 
The  verdant  curtain  parted  with  their  rush; 
The  jungle-ropes  and  snaky  stems  were  torn 
From  the  tall  tree-tops,  strewing  all  the  ground. 
Then  one  great  mass  of  elephantine  heads, 
Swinging  their  dusky  trunks  with  screams  of  rage, 
Burst  thro'  the  foliage,  while  sharp  rifle-shots 
With  carnage  redden'd  all  that  forest-glade. 


AUTUMNAL  SPOUTS. 

rPIIE  woods  are  color'd  with  prismy  dyes, 

The  clouds  are  llush'd  in  the  autumn  skies, 
The  leaf  of  the  elm  is  crisp  and  brown, 
The  oak-trees  wear  their  golden  crown, 
The  maple  groves  with  scarlet  glow, 
The  willows  twinkle,  a  splendid  show; 
The  sumac  thickets,  intensely  red, 
Their  leaves  o'er  the  roadside  borders  shed; 
But  deep  in  woods  the  dusky  glades 
Of  evergreen  tins  and  cypress  shades 
Give  safe  retreat  and  a  welcome  lair 
To  prowling  wolf  and  to  growling  bear; 
And  here  in  the  copse,  or  'mid  river-reeds, 
The  dappled  deer-herd-runway  leads; 
The  antler'd  stag  and  the  tawny  doe 
Here  crop  the  grass  by  the  river-tlow. 
SM  here  in  ambush  the  hunter  lies 
To  drop  the  fugitive  as  he  flies. 

The  woodmen  come  from  logging-camp, 
The  trappers  come  with  stealthy  tramp, 


64  POEMS   OF  THE   EOD   AND   GUN. 

The  hunter  comes  from  city  square 
To  follow  the  woodland  thoroughfare; 
They  come  with  rifle,  horse  and  hound 
To  hunt  the  deer  in  the  forest-ground. 

Now  far  where  stretches  the  russet  plain, 
That  erevvhile  glow'd  with  autumn  grain, 
In  stubble-fields  where  lurk  the  quail, 
Or  away  on  frighten'd  pinions  sail, 
The  gunner  with  his  pointer  hies 
To  stop  the  quarry  as  it  flies; 
And  far  over  western  prairie's  space, 
Where  the  grouse-flocks  have  their  feeding-place, 
'Mid  corn-stacks  or  the  wither'd  grass, 
Unwearied  ever  the  shooters  pass. 

And  where  the  river  flows  swift  and  deep, 
Belting  the  woodlands  in  their  sweep, 
The  fowlers  by  the  reedy  bank 
AYhere  grow  the  rushes  tall  and  rank, 
And  leaves  the  ambush'd  forms  conceal, 
Lie  for  the  wood-duck  and  the  teal. 

Far  where  the  broad  blue  bays  extend 
Their  billows  to  the  horizon  end, 
And  where  the  honking  geese  and  brant 
Assemble  in  their  chosen  haunt, 
Where  canvas-back  and  redheads  feed 
At  banquet  of  the  wild  rice  seed, 
The  fowlers  in  their  drifting  boat 
Spread  havoc  as  they  onward  float. 

Far  where  Atlantic  surges  pour 
Their  crested  breakers  to  the  shore, 
The  fowlers  urge  the  hot  pursuit 
Of  screaming  loon  and  dusky  coot. 

Fair,  fading  season,  beauteous  with  the  hues 
That  nature  from  her  sumptuous  palette  drops! 
I  love  to* watch  the  colors  that  suffuse 
Thy  tufted  groves,  the  glowing  forest  tops; 
Thou  lead'st  the  joyous  sportsman  by  the  hand 
Thro'  all  the  wonders  of  enchanted  land. 
The  angler,  too,  finds  ever  new  delight 
Where  creeps  the  brook,  where  runs  the  river  bright; 


THE  OSTRICH.  65 

For  nature,  ever  in  benignant  mood, 
Spreads  charms  resistless  over  field  and  Hood. 

But  nobler  game  is  there  to  seek 
Where  soaring  mountains  lift  the  peak, 
Or  where  dark  forests,  measureless, 
O'er  black  ravines  or  summits  press, 
Where  the  o'crtumbling  waterfall 
Forever  hoarsely  sounds  its  call. 
For  there  the  red  deer  bounding  goes, 
The  antler'd  stag  and  tawny  roes, 
The  brindled  moose  and  elk  of  might, 
The  caribou  with  clattering  flrght: 
For  all  those  creatures  there  that  bask 
May  well  reward  the  hunter's  task. 


THE  OSTRICH.     (Strucliio  camelu*.) 

rPIIE  mounted  tribesmen  gather  far, 

From  wattled  hut  and  herdsman's  kraal, 
To  follow  over  grassy  plain 
The  noble  ostrich  on  his  trail. 
Some  mount  the  wild,  impatient  steed, 
And  some  afoot  essay  the  chase, 
With  slender  spear  and  poison'd  shaft, 
All  ambush'd  in  some  lonely  place. 

Fast  by  some  fount,  like-  diamond  gem 
Dropp'd  in  the  desert's  fenceless  bound, 
Amid  the  water-reeds  they  lie, 
Outstretch'd  upon  the  marshy  ground, 
Knowing  the  ostrich  there  will  come, 
Hard  press'd  by  hunter  and  by  steed, 
To  seek  the  water-courses  lone 
For  drink  and  shelter  in  their  need. 

Far,  far  the  spurring  horsemen  ride, 
With  savage  whoop  and  ringing  shout. 
Far,  far  the  panic  stricken  Hock 
Flies  onward  in  tumultuous  rout; 
Their  black  bill  and  their  slender  neck 
Before  them  point  the  unerring  way, 
5 


66  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Their  nervous  legs  and  flapping  wings 
Ply  ceaseless  o'er  the  grassy  vley, 
And  long  and  weary  must  the  chase 
Be  leugthen'd  o'er  the  desert  space. 

The  savage  far  and  wide  will  ride 
To  win  the  precious  fleeing  prize, 
Gazing  before  him  at  those  plumes 
That  captivate  his  greedy  eyes; 
For  Sheik  is  shorn  of  half  his  pomp 
If  grac'd  not  with  his  feather'd  crown, 
The  waving  ostrich-plumes  that  twine 
His  brow  with  their  imperial  down. 

And  oh!  what  sweet  young  maiden  brows 
With  golden  curl  or  raven  tress, 
In  other  lands  beyond  the  seas, 
Those  ostrich  wonders  shall  caress! 
In  royal  courts,  in  palaces, 
Where  queens  and  nobles  grace  the  ball, 
And  lucent  pearls  and  diamonds  shine 
Resplendent  in  the  sumptuous  hall; 
How  will  the  blazing  lights  illume 
That  floating,  foamlike  Afric  plume, 
So  purely  white,  so  peerless  fair, 
Drifting  like  snow-flake  in  the  air! 


ROCKY   MOUNTAIN   SPORTS.     (Capra,) 

airy  summits  of  the  Rocky  Mounts, 
'Mid  craggy  ridges  inaccessible 
To  hunter's  foot  or  daring  trapper's  tread, 
Far  in  the  worlds  of  everlasting  snows, 
Leaps  from  rock  to  rock,  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
The  short-horn'd,  fleecy  mountain-goat, 
Roams  at  free-will  the  desert  solitudes. 

Well  may  this  wild,  swift-footed  creature  hold 
His  refuge  and  his  home  amid  the  wastes, 
Haply  secure  from  lurking  Indian's  shaft 
Or  rifle  of  the  hunter  of  the  deer; 
For,  in  those  savage  realms,  'tis  perilous 


ROOT!     MOINTAIN    Sl'OKT-.  C7 

For  step  of  hunter  to  invade  the  waste, 
To  scale  the  jutting  Hilts,  to  plunge 
In  chirk  ravines  and  gulches  of  the  hills, 
To  cross  untrampled  hillocks  of  the  snows, 
Where,  'neath  the  brittle  crust,  some  hidden  chasm 
May  plunge  th'  unwary  foot  in  endless  death. 

And  here  the  wild  Hocks  rove;  they  crop  the  grass, — 
The  short,  sweet  grasses  of  the  mountain-slopes, 
Kept  ever  verdant  by  dissolving  drifts; 
And  there,  in  cavern'd  arch  or  grotto  dim, 
They  drink  the  crystal  brook,  and  rest  at  night. 
Though  ever  watchful,  perch'd  on  some  bleak  cliff, 
Where  only  the  bald-eagle  sweeps  his  vans, 
With  no  low  bush  or  stunted  tree  to  yield 
A  covert  to  the  hunter,  yet  unseen 
The  stalking  trapper  scales  the  stony  height, 
And  daring  soldier  from  the  frontier  fort 
Climbs  the  steep  cliff,  and  creeps  from  rock  to  rock, 
And  from  some  grassy  rampart  fires  the  shot. 

There,  too,  among  the  valleys  far  below, 
That  with  their  flowery  slopes  and  hanging  woods 
And  winding  rivers  fringe  the  mountain  base, 
The  prong-horn'd,  slender  antelope  is  found; 
A  wondrous  creature,  fleet  as  flight  of  bird, 
He  sweeps  the  boundless  pastures  with  a  speed 
That  mocks  the  fastest  horse,  the  swiftest  hound, 
And  yet  he  falls  a  victim  to  the  arts 
And  arms  of  the  all-conquering  hunter. 
The  Indian  and  the  trapper  seek  his  haunts; 
And  soldier  who  has  dar'd  the  dangerous  march, 
And  all  the  perils  of  the  wilderness, 
Follows,  with  patient  toil,  his  devious  tracks. 

There,  too,  that  dreaded  monarch  of  the  wild, 
The  fierce,  despotic,  sanguinary  bear — 
The  mighty  grizzly  bear — has  made  his  haunt; 
So  fierce  in  aspect,  so  immense  in  size, 
Cruel  in  rai;e,  majestic  in  his  tread, — 
He  rules,  the  undisputed  lord  of  all, 
The  wild  king  of  the  waste,  defying  man!   ' 
The  Indian  fears  him,  and  to  lay  him  low 


68  POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  AND  GUN. 

Is  his  grand  triumph  and  his  life-long  boast  • 
Yet  the  white  hunter  meets  him  face  to  face, 
And  with  th'  unerring  rifle  wins  the  fight. 


FOREST  AND  STREAM, 


and  far  the  woods  extend, 
Leaf  -laden  branches  graceful  bend  ; 
The  old  oaks,  like  great  tents,  outspread 
Their  verdant  canopies  o'erhead  ; 
The  fir,  the  hemlock,  and  the  pine 
Their  interlacing  shoots  entwine  ; 
The  cypress  of  the  swampy  glade 
Enweaves  a  dark  impervious  shade  ; 
The  slender  willows  stoop  to  lave 
Their  tassels  in  the  rushing  wave; 
The  chestnuts  cast  their  treasures  down, 
Their  opening  burrs,  their  nuts  of  brown  ; 
And  thick  the  clusters  of  the  grape 
With  purple  wealth  the  alders  drape, 
And  on  the  forest  kings  unfold  -i 
Their  draperies  of  green  and  gold. 

Each  river,  each  transparent  stream, 
Amid  the  woodland  vistas  gleam  ; 
They  toss  with  foam  where  rocks  impede 
The  arrowy  swiftness  of  their  speed  ; 
They  glide  with  smooth,  unruffled  sweep 
Where  flow  their  currents  .dusk  and  deep, 
And  fathomless  abysses  hide 
The  sand  and  shells  that  pave  the  tide. 

Now  deep  in  forest  glooms  the  deer 
Bound  in  exultant,  swift  career; 
They  leave  the  covert  of  the  glade 
When  earliest  rosy  dawns  invade  ; 
They  pause  to  nibble  the  sweet  grass, 
In  bosky  dale,  in  mountain-pass; 
They  stop  to  drink  the  sparkling  fount 
That  trickles  from  the  rocky  mount, 


WILD   TURKEY.  69 

Or  lie  at  noontide  to  repose 
Where  tall  the  fern  luxuriant  grows; 
But  when  the  yelpings  of  the  hound 
Athwart  the  sleeping  shades  resound, 
And  when  the  hunter's  whooping  cheer 
And  winding  horn  rise  near  and  clear, 
Quick  from  their  sheltering  haunts  they  spring, 
And  fly  like  fleet  birds  on  the  wing. 
Forest  and  Stream!  I  love  to  trace 
Your  inmost  depths,  your  watery  race; 
I  love  your  dense,  primeval  shade, 

0  forest  monarch!  to  invade. 

1  love,  O  grand,  majestic  Stream! 
To  wander  where  your  ripples  gleam, 
T*o  plunge  beneath  your  ice-cold  breast; 
To  seek  the  wild-fowl  that  infest 
Your  wooded  shores;  to  spread  the  sail 
In  gusty  breeze  or  howling  gale; 

To  take  the  springing  trout  that]  skim 
Your  face,  or  in  abysses  swim; 
In  storm,  in  calm,  in  shade,  in  shine, 
My  heart,  my  steps  to  thee  incline. 
No  haunts  of  earth  so  fair  I  deem, 
As  Forest-side  and  banks  of  Stream! 


WILD  TURKEY.     (Mekagris  gallopaw.) 

^T^IIE  purpling  twilight's  melting  blue 

Is  fading  with  its  transient  hue ; 
The  red  cloud  that  erewhile'did  float 
The  heavenly  vault  like  painted  boat, 
Now  with  a  denser  shadow  creeps 
Across  the  darkening  upper  deeps. 
The  glow  that  late  the  river's  tide 
With  its  encrimson'd  blushes  dyed, 
I  lath  vanish'd,  and  the  rushing  flood, 
Flows  gloomy  past  the  bordering  wood; 
Now  to  their  roosts  wild  turkeys  stray, 
And  ambush'd  hunters  seek  their  prey. 


70  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

This  wandering,  shy,  secluded  bird, 
This  roamer  of  the  forest-ground, 
Thro'  all  the  Western  wilderness, 
In  deuse,  embowering  haunt  is  found. 
In  all  the  groves  that  shade  the  shores 
Of  Mississippi's  swelling  flood, 
And  where  the  grand  Missouri  pours, 
Thro'  every  dim  and  tangled  wood, 
In  multitudes  immense  they  roam 
Afar  from  human  step  and  home. 

So  shy  that  scarce  the  hunter's  gun 
May  harm  them,  bursting  on  the  wing; 
So  fleet  that  scarce  pursuing  steed 
Its  rider  within  shot  may  bring; 
But  only  may  he  lie  in  wait, 
Like  bandit  watching  for  his  game, 
And  lure  the  victims  to  their  fate — 
The  whistling  ball,  the  rifle-flame. 

Seek  them  where  gloomy  shadows  fall 
Beneath  the  forests  grim  and  tall, 
In  the  deep  alder-brakes,  or  where 
The  dark  pines  lift  their  spears  in  air, 
And  there  where  slow  a  streamlet  creeps, 
Or  swift  through  bushy  ravine  sweeps, 
Hid  in  the  ferns  that  droop  around, 
Your  call  deceptive,  cautious  sound ; 
Soon  will  you  hear  the  answering  note 
From  the  embowering  thickets  float, 
Soon  will  you  see  the  noble  game 
Step  forth — then  steady  be  your  aim! 

All  stratagems,  all  cunning  wiles, 
The  settlers  fail  not  to  employ; 
For  when  the  springing  maize-field  smiles, 
Their  flocks  the  tender  ears  destroy; 
Then  trench  is  dug,  and  train  is  led 
Of  sprinkled  corn  along  the  trail, 
And  where  the  treacherous  feast  is  spread 
The  flock  is  swept  with  volleying  hail. 


H.OYII;. 


PLOVER.     (Charadrius  marnwratns.) 

\"  <>W  is  the  Autumn's  royul  prime, 

When  woods  are  tilled  with  Autumn's  brush, 
When  hick«»ry  groves  arc  bright  with  gold, 

And  maples  wear  a  blood-red  flush; 
The  poplars  bear  a  yellow  crown, 
The  oaks  their  robes  of  russet  brown; 
The  dogwoods  their  dull  purple  screen, 
Mix'd  with  the  alder's  sable  green, 
And  where  the  sparling  rivulet  twines 
The  greenery  of  the  willow  shines. 

The  silver  fretwork  of  the  frost 

Gleams  in  the  early  morning  light; 
I.almy  and  brisk  the  air  is  tost 

Over  salt  marsh  and  upland  height; 
Now,  shrilly  sounds  the  plovers'  cry 
As  circling  down  the  breeze  they  fly. 

Where  the  salt  meadows  wide  and  far 
Sweep  seaward  to  the  sandy  bar; 
Where  pebbled  inlet  of  the  bay 
Is  riotous  with  the  billow's  play, — 
There  thick  the  black-breast  plovers  soar, 
Where  minute  shell  fish  line  the  shore; 
There  greedily  their  banquets  share, 
There  hover  o'er  the  fowler's  snare. 

But  where  thy  rolling  downs  outspread, 

O  wild  Montauk!  their  grassy  plain; 
And  where  the  Shinneck  hills  o'erlook 

The  vast  expanses  of  the  main; 
There,  where  the  insect-swarms  abound, 
The  golden-plover  Hocks  are  found. 

Oft  have  I  stood,  ere  dawning  day 
Flash'd  on  the  ocean  rim  its  llame, 

With  ready  gun  and  throbbing  pulse, 
To  watch  the  great  flocks  us  they  came. 


POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

First  a  mere  speck  across  the  sky, 
A  cloudy  shadow,  drifting  near, 
But  soon  a  musical,  soft  cry, 

And  soon  a  myriad  wings  appear! 
They  hover  down  the  dusky  air, 
Like  rushing  winds  they  whirl  and  swoop, 
Now  sweeping  low,  now  circling  high, 
Then  earthward  to  their  banquet  stoop. 

O  brother  sportsman !  has  the  earth 
Such  thrilling  charm  to  match  with  this- 

A  moment  with  such  rapture  fill'd, 
An  hour  of  such  unbounded  bliss? 


QUAIL.     (Ortyx  Viryinianus.} 

IV/TORN  with  a  roseate  bloom  hath  fleck'd 
The  eastern  sky  with  spangled  gold ; 
The  red  October  sun  displays, 
O'er  purple  hills  and  lonely  bays, 
And  wood  paths  where  the  dun  deer  strays, 

His  flag  of  ruddy  gold. 
The  gauzy  mists,  that  all  night  threw 
Their  veil  athwart  the  pure  lake's  breast, 
In  wreaths  ascend  heaven's  dome  of  blue, 
Or  twine  around  each  mountain  crest 

The  silvery  crowns  of  dew. 

Sweet  now  at  morn  and  eve  the  quail 

Repeats  his  plaintive,  whistling  note, 
And  softly  fall  the  answering  cries 

That  over  wood  and  corn-field  float. 
Now,  sportsmen,  with  your  gun  and  dog, 

Forth  in  the  early  morning  pass, 
While  yet  the  air  is  rich  with  blooms, 

And  wet  with  pearly  dews  the  grass; 
For  now  the  bevies  are  abroad 

To  seek  in  stubble-fields  their  feed, 
Or  where  the  bushy  covert  drops 

Its  juicy  wreath,  its  ripen'd  seed. 


QUA  1 1,  73 

Seek,  then,  where  grassy  tussocks  bend 

r.y  sheltering  hedge  or  thorny  glade; 
I'.ut  best  where  sweet  buckwheat  was  reap'd, 

Or  where  the  oats  in  swaths  were  laid. 
He  cautious,  silent  in  your  tread, 

For  close,  unseen,  the  coveys  lie, 
And  when  arous'd,  on  hurrying  wing, 

Straight  to  some  briery  hedge  they  fly, 
Where,  hid  in  thick  impervious  swale, 
The  hunter's  skill  may  nought  avail. 

Be  cool  and  steady  when  they  rise, 

Let  no  weak  tremors  shake  thy  nerve, 
For  swift  and  steady  is  their  flight,  _, 

Their  speedy  wings  may  never  swerve; 
Sure  be  the  eye,  the  finger  true, 
For  never  swifter  victim  flew. 

First  seek  in  open  stubble-field, 

Or  where  in  grassy  clumps  they  lie, 
For  then,  alarm'd,  in  sea  tier 'd  flocks 

To  safer,  denser  coverts  fly; 
Then,  singly  rising  from  their  lair, 
"  They  leave  their  little  lives  in  air." 

Go  forth— all  nature  welcomes  thee! 

Now  is  a  sweet,  fresh  autumn  morn ; 
The  blood- red  sun  shines  thro'  the  haze 

That  veil'd  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 
The  silver  fretwork  of  the  frost 

Still  glitters  white  on  grass  and  fern; 
The  air  is  balmy  in  its  breath, 

The  woods  with  autumn  colorings  bum. 
The  painter's  palette  may  not  catch 

The  scarlet  o'er  the  maples  spread, 
Vie  with  the  russet  of  the  oaks, 

Or  purple  o'er  the  dogwoods  shed. 
All  nature,  with  benignant  hand, 

Beckons  thee  forth  with  magic  wand. 


74  POEMS   OF   THE   BOD   AND   GUN. 


COOT-SHOOTING.     (Fulica  atra.} 

late  October's  frosty  breath 
Blows  over  color'd  woodlands  guy ; 
From  the  remotest  Labrador, 

From  Baffin's  and  from  Hudson's  Bay, 
The  streaming  migratory  flocks 

Of  sable  coot  their  journey  urge, 
Following  the  coast-line's  devious  sweep 
To  Florida's  remotest  verge. 

Since  earliest  spring-time  they  have  sought 

The  utmost  northern  isle  and  shoal; 
Their  chosen  haunt  and  breeding-ground, 

In  latitudes  beneath  the  Pole. 
The  wild-geese  and  the  brent-geese  there 

In  swamps  impervious  build  their  nest 
(So  Northern  fishermen  declare), 

Where  none  may  reach  them  to  molest. 
But  the  shy  coot-tribes  o'er  the  sands 

And  reeds  of  rocky  islands  throng; 
There  frame  the  nest  and  rear  the  young, 

And  linger  all  the  summer  long. 

Off  every  jutting  reef  and  point 

Thrust  seaward  from  New  England's  shore, 
The  wild-fowl  shooters  spread  the  sail 

And  vex  the  waters  with  the  oar. 
There,  anchor'd  in  a  curving  line, 

Two  score  of  tossing  boats  extend, 
Each  fowler  prompt  with  uprais'd  gun 

To  thin  the  flocks,  where'er  they  tend. 
The  old-wife,  swiftest  on  the  wing, 

The  sheldrake  pied,  and  speckled  loon, 
Join  in  the  ocean  voyaging, 

And  flank  each  migrating  platoon; 
Nor  cease  their  sea-flights  till  the  breeze 

Of  summer  climates  warms  the  seas. 


WOLF.  75 

Iii  Massachusetts  Buy,  and  far 

Where  Cape  Cod  spreads  its  yellow  sand, 
By  e\vry  ereek  and  cape  of  Maine, 

River  and  estuary  grand, 
In  Vineyard  and  Long  Island  Sound, 

And  by  its  southern  ocean  shore, 
Their  countless  myriads  are  found. 

Winging  as  far  as  billows  pour. 
By  Jersey  coast  and  Delaware  Bay, 

From  Cape  Charles  to  York  River  tides, 
The  black  coot  plies  his  dusky  wing, 

And  o'er  the  tossing  ocean  glides. 

By  Gardiner's  and  by  Shelter  Isle, 

Far  out  on  sandy  bar  and  shoal, 
These  swarming  water-fowl  disport 

Wherever  salty  billows  roll. 
And  where  Pcconic  spreads  its  sheet, 

Engirdled  by  its  hills  of  green, 
The  coot  and  whistlers  find  a  haunt 

In  shclter'd  reach  and  cove  serene. 


WOLF.     (Canis  occidentalis.} 

TN  winter,  when  the  snows  lie  deep 
In  shapeless  hillock,  drifted  heap; 
When  thick  the  hollow  vales  they  fill, 
And  woods  are  trackless  on  the  hill, 
The  wild  wolves,  famish'd,  grim  and  gaunt, 
Forsake  their  rocky  mountain-haunt, 
When  frozen  Nature's  hand  denies 
The  food  in  summer  it  supplies. 
Forc'd  from  their  coverts,  far  they  prowl 
With  gnashing  teeth  and  dismal  howl, 
And,  hid  all  day  in  darksome  den, 
At  night  roam  round  the  haunts  of  men. 
By  cattle- fold  or  shelter'd  shed 
Where  bleating  sheep  are  hous'd  and  fed, 


76  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

When  all  the  farmer's  household  sleeps, 
And  watch-dog  to  the  fireside  creeps, 
These  fierce  marauders  gather  round ; 
They  scent  the  air,  they  sniff  the  ground, 
Then  with  a  farnish'd  onset  break 
Thro'  wattled  hedge  and  sheepfold  stake, 
Rending  with  their  demoniac  crew 
The  fleecy  dam,  the  bleating  ewe. 

The  farmer  at  the  break  of  day 
Looks  on  the  ravage  with  dismay, — 
The  precious  flock,  complete  no  more ; 
The  snowy  sheep-yard,  red  with  gore! 
From  farm  to  farm-house  spreads  the  tale, 
From  upland  hut  to  peopled  vale; 
All  arm,  the  "wolf-drive"  to  prepare, 
A  hunt  that  all  for  leagues  must  share. 
Some  from  the  dusty  rafters  take 
Their  rusty  guns  of  ancient  make; 
And  some,  late  soldiers  of  the  war, 
The  rifles  that  have  slain  so  far; 
The  small  boys  birding-pieces  wield, 
Impatient  for  the  hunting-field. 

Forth  then  exultingly  they  pour 
For  circuit  of  ten  leagues  or  more ; 
Their  captains  on  their  coursers  borne, 
Arm'd  with  the  trumpet  and  the  horn ; 
All  wading  o'er  the  snow-heap'd  ground, 
All  to  some  common  centre  bound, 
Marching  with  blast  of  horns  and  shout, 
To  drive  the  hunted  wolves  in  rout. 

Uuharm'd  the  red  deer  boundeth  by; 
Scathless  the  wild-cats  from  the  bough 
Gaze  on  the  rushing  crowd  below; 
The  coon  from  hollow  of  the  tree 
Looks  down,  amaz'd  the  coil  to  see. 
'Tis  known  in  tangled-hazel  swamp 
The  wolves  have  made  their  winter  camp; 
And  here,  vociferous  and  loud, 
Concentrates  th'  avenging  crowd, 


ROD  AND  GUN.  77 

Engirdling  as  with  iron  ring 

The  wolves  that  to  their  covert  cling. 

At  summons  of  the  leader  press 
Thro'  briery,  vine-strung  wilderness, 
A  chosen  band,  with  horn  and  cry 
To  fright  the  victims  till  they  ily; 
Who,  mad  with  terror,  seek  to  gain 
Some  outlet  of  escape  in  vain; 
For  everywhere  a  foeman  stands 
To  slaughter  them  with  bloody  hands; 
And  soon  is  soak'd  the  spotless  snow 
With  crimson  blood  from  wounds  that  How. 


ROD   AND   GUN. 

rPIIE  spring-time  is  here  with  gleam  and  glow, 

And  softer  the  vernal  breezes  blow, 
The  pallid  ice-field  extends  no  more 
O'er  the  broad  river-reach  its  crystal  floor; 
All  the  open  bay  is  breezy  and  white, 
All  its  dancing  billows  quiver  with  light. 
Then  come,  then  come,  brethren  of  gun  and  rod, 
When  the  earliest  violets  sow  the  sod, 
For  the  brooks  arc  alive  with  springing  trout — 
Alive  in  wilful  and  wanton  rout. 
()  come,  then,  brothers  of  rod  and  gun, 
Where  the  wild-fowl  gather  and  waters  run. 

Behold,  by  the  Bay-shore's  sedgy  banks 
The  wild-geese  squadrons  deploy  their  ranks; 
In  wedge-like  columns,  in  crowded  files, 
They  sweep  o'er  the  bay,  over  sandy  isles; 
Over  leafless  woods,  over  spreading  bay, 
On  clanging  pinions  they  urge  their  w;iv  ; 
Now  high  over  sailing  clouds  they  pa--. 
Now  prone  they  stoop  to  the  yellow  grass, 
Till  with  hollow  honkings  they  settle  low, 
And  fold  their  wings  where  the  currents  flow. 

Then  haste,  then,  brothers  that  love  the  gun, 
Where  the  brant-flocks  gather  at  peep  of  sun ; 


78  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

Ere  the  first  light  crimsons  the  rolling  deep, 
The  dark  flocks  shoreward  circling  sweep; 
They  wheel  by  jutting  headland  and  cape, 
For  the  feeding-shallows  their  way  they  shape, 
And  the  fowler,  hid  by  the  weedy  shore, 
Thins  out  their  ranks  as  they  hover  o'er. 

Soon  will  a  tenderer  glow  suffuse 
The  drifting  clouds  with  rosier  hues; 
Soon  will  a  tremulous  verdure  creep 
Over  upland  pasture  and  woody  steep  ; 
Soon  will  the  glory  of  summer  pervade 
The  ocean-border,  the  forest  shade; 
And  the  angler  his  precious  spoil  may  take — 
The  salmon,  the  trout — by  shore  and  lake; 
And  when  the  colors  autumnal  shall  stain 
The  sumptuous  foliage  of  wood  and  plain, 
The  smokes  of  the  frequent  gun  shall  arise 
Where  in  stubble-fields  the  covey  lies, 
Or  where  in  the  dusky  forest  the  deer 
Urge  far  and  fleetly  their  grand  career. 


THE  ANTIQUARY'S  ARMORY. 

WEAPONS  OP  WAR  AND  CHASE. 

hang  on  the  carven  oaken  wall 
Of  picturesque,  ancestral  hall, 
Armors  in  ancient  battles  worn, 
Banners  and  pennons  shred  and  torn; 
Cuirass  and  helmet,  gorget  bright, 
Dinted  and  pierc'd  in  stormy  fight, 
Breastplate  and  morion,  casques  of  proof, 
Hanging  from  rafter  and  groined  roof. 
Burnish'd  shields  that  have  turn'd  aside 
Bullet  and  arrow  in  battletide; 
Swords  double-handed,  claymore  blade, 
By  Scottish  hands  in  forays  sway'd — 
Weapons  of  every  age  and  race 
In  this  old  gallery  find  a  place. 


THE  ANTIQUARY'S  ARMORY.  79 

Stiletto,  dagger,  and  poniard  keen, 
Toledo  rapier,  Highland  skene, 
Banners  that  streani'd  from  castle  crag, 
Trafalgar  Nelson's  blazon'd  Hag, 
Standards  at  Moscow's  gate  that  flew, 
Or  wav'd  in  the  flumes  of  Waterloo, 
Banners  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers, 
Star-Hags  that  wav'd  on  Bunker's  height, 
Or  Marston  Moor  in  the  vanish'd  years, 
Flags  of  the  old  Saratoga  fight, 
Blood-red  ensigns  of  Lundy  Lane, 
Of  Orleans,  borne  o'er  the  British  slain; 
Flags  of  the  grand,  chivalric  joust, 
Where  spears  were  shiver'd  and  lances  lost: 
Flags  of  Gettysburg's  stricken  field, 
Or  where  the  cannon  of  Shiloh  peal'd; 
And  many  another  tatter'd  fold, 
Scorch'd  in  the  fires,  in  slaughter  roll'd. 

There  were  weapons  of  Indian  strife, 
Red  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife; 
Buckler  of  skin  and  wampum  crest, 
War-club  and  sling  of  the  savage  West, 
Shafts  of  a  prehistoric  race, 
Fashion'd  for  ravage  or  the  chase; 
Knife  of  the  Norseman,  keen  to  slay, 
Paw  nee  arrows  of  lawless  fray, 
Spears  of  the  ruthless  Carib  baud, 
Light  assegais  of  Afric  land, 
Deerhorn  naliget,  tipt  with  steel 
Of  Arctic  hunter  of  the  seal ; 
A  Feejee  paddle  and  war-canoe 
Once  mann'd  by  a  Cannibal  Island  crew. 

All  these  mementoes  of  peace  and  war, 
From  frozen  pole  to  the  tropics  far, 
Shine  out  as  the  sunbeam  filters  clear 
O'er  kandjar,  creese,  and  spur  and  spear; 
They  rest  in  peace  from  hunt  and  fight, 
The  dust  of  years  gathers  on  them  white; 
They  crumble  in  Time's  corroding  rust, 
The  hands  that  fashiuii'd  them  lie  in  dust, 


80  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

These  weapons  remind  of  other  years, 
When  swept  the  Saxon  with  plump  of  spears, 
Of  pulk  of  Cossacks  in  wild  hurrah, 
Storming  around  Napoleon's  war; 
Of  Indian  tribesmen  o'er  grassy  plain, 
The  plunging  chargers,  the  tossing  mane, 
The  swinging  lariat,  levell'd  lance, 
The  massacre,  the  great  war  dance, 
And  of  many  another  stirring  scene — 
When  these  old  weapons  were  bright  and  keen, 


FIRE-HUNTING  DEER, 

nPHE  summer  days  were  in  their  prime, 

The  wood-paths  dim  with  sombre  shade; 
The  song-birds  trill'd  their  mellow  chime, 
Gay  flow'rets  blossom'd  in  the  glade  ; 
Uncut,  unclear'd,  the  virgin  woods 
Of  oak  and  maple  fring'd  the  shore; 
While  the  umbrageous  evergreen, 
Darkling,  in  towering  height  lean'd  o'er 
Woods,  where  the  raccoon,  lynx,  and  bear, 
And  dun  wolves,  made  their  secret  lair. 

Up  the  calm  river,  as  the  shades 
Of  glimmering  eve  began  to  creep, 
The  hunters,  in  the  birch  canoe, 
With  setting-pole  and  paddle-sweep, 
Eager  by  torchlight  to  ensnare 
The  deer,  when  darkness  shrouds  the  air. 

Battling  the  rapids  of  the  stream, 
Fair  shone  the  scene  in  twilight  dim; 
The  feeding  ducks  burst  on  the  wing, 
Or  'mid  the  sheltering  rushes  swim; 
The  heron  flaps  his  dusky  plumes, 
The  raccoon  climbs  the  nearest  tree, 
The  pied  kingfishers  startled  flee, 
The  musk-rat  hastes  across  the  tide, 
The  woodpeckers  like  arrows  dart; 
While  high  o'erhead,  on  pinions  wide, 
Eagles  the  realms  of  ether  part. 


WILD    CAT.  81 

But  when  the  hovering  shades  grow  deep 
The  fire-Hies  flash  athwart  the  gloom, 
The  whippoorwills  make  sad  lament, 
The  frogs  in  lonely  marshes  boom ; 
And  now  the  jack- light  on  the  prow 
Illumes  the  wave  with  bar  of  light; 
The  hunter's  heart  is  throbbing  now, 
Himself  unseen  behind  the  smokes, 
While  the  stout  oarsman  plies  his  strokes. 

Gazing,  two  dusky  forms  they  see, 
Standing  knee-deep  within  the  tide; 
And  now  with  hoofs  they  dash  the  wave 
To  fright  the  insects  from  their  side; 
Now,  from  the  sweet  aquatic  grass 
Whereon  they  feed,  they  raise  the  head, 
To  watch  with  curious  gaze  the  flame 
Athwart  the  inky  river  shed; 
Then  when  the  red  reflected  light 
Gleams  on  their  glassy  eye-balls  clear, 
The  volleying  gun  disturbs  the  night, 
And  dies  with  gasping  moan  the  deer. 


WILD-CAT.    (Felts  catus.) 

A  MID  the  wildernesses  vast 

That  gird  the  Mississippi's  shores, 
'Mid  woods  whose  shadows  dense  arc  cast 
Where  the  Red  River  sluggish  pours, 
The  wild-cat  makes  his  lonely  camp, 
His  dark,  impregnable  abode, 
Hid  in  the  dusk,  unwholesome  swamp 
Where  human  foot  hath  seldom  trod. 
In  dense  retreat,  in  hollow  tree, 
Or  natural  cave  it  rears  its  brood, 
And  hunts  the  forest's  recesses 
To  feed  their  gaping  mouths  with  food. 
In  silence  of  the  darkling  night, 
Or  when  the  new  day  has  its  birth, 
It  goes  abroad  with  step  as  light 
As  fall  of  thistle-down  to  earth. 


82  POEMS   OF   THE    BOD   AND   GUN. 

No  bird  may  build  its  airy  nest 

Beyond  the  wild-cat's  plundering  quest, 

For  swift  and  easy  as  a  bird 

It  mounts,  and  scarce  a  leaf  is  stirr'd. 

It  runs,  it  flies,  it  springs,  it  leaps, 

As  graceful  as  the  antelope, 

Yet  cruel  as  the  tiger  grim 

In  Indian  swamp  or  mountain  slope. 

The  hare,  the  'possum,  and  the  coon, 
It  waylays  in  the  forest-glade; 
'Gainst  poultry-yard  and  sheepfold  pen 
Its  ravaging  inroads  are  made; 
So  with  all  arts  the  human  race 
Assails  it  in  the  pitiless  chase. 

At  day- dawn  forth  the  hunters  go 
With  rifle  and  with  yelping  hound; 
They  run  the  red  fox  to  his  den, 
They  track  the  "  cat"  in  forest  ground; 
They  drive  him  to  some  dense  retreat 
Where  high  o'erhead  the  branches  meet; 
Close  to  some  rough  and  gnarled  limb 
The  frenzied  creature  hides  and  clings. 
With  foamy  jaws  and  hair  erect, 
Fierce  glances  from  his  eyes  he  flings, 
But  deadly  aim  and  rifle-ball 
Soon  humble  him  in  headlong  fall. 
But  if  tenacious  life  remains, 
He  meets  the  baffled,  fierce  attack, 
Then  swift  thro'  wood  and  briery  bush 
He  flies,  the  dog  pack  yelling  at  his  back; 
He  scales  some  tree-top,  or  doth  plunge 
In  some  deep  fissure  of  the  ground, 
And  then  the  death-fight  is  renew'd 
'Twixt  the  marauder  and  the  hound, 
And  many  a  ghastly  wound  doth  show 
Before  the  quarry  is  laid  low. 


PANTHER   IN   LOUISIANA.  83 

PANTHER   IN   LOUISIANA.     (Felis  pardus.} 

flushing  dawn  had  scarcely  tipt 
The  morning  clouds  \vitli  Hecks  of  gold, 
Flush'd  the  dusk  waters  of  the  stream 
That  thro'  the  broad  savannas  roll'd, 
When  from  a  wide  plantation  near 
A  hunter  with  his  ranging  pack 
Went  forth  the  wild-cat  or  the  deer 
To  follow  in  the  forest-track. 

Thro'  orange-groves  of  spic'd  perfume, 
Thro'  canebrakes  dense  and  cypress  woods, 
That  darken 'd  each  remote  lagoon, 
Or  bayou  hid  in  solitudes, 
Known  only  to  the  woodland  game, 
Wild  animals  that  rang'd  the  waste, 
The  hunter  with  the  lash  and  spur 
Press'd  forward  in  impetuous  haste. 

Far- ranging  in  their  circuits  wide, 
Now  struggling  thro'  a  hedge  of  thorn, 
Now  scouring  o'er  some  plashy  marsh, 
Snuffing  the  scent  on  breezes  borne, 
The  pack  with  bayings  load  the  gale; 
At  length,  hot-footed  on  the  trail, 
Soon  in  some  forest-gloom  the  hound 
Proclaims  some  noble  game  is  found. 
A  panther  of  vast  size  and  strength 
Is  up— for  deafening  is  their  howl, 
Frighting  from  lair  the  mottled  deer 
And  all  the  fluttering  forest-fowl. 
With  hair  erect  and  eyeballs  strain'd, 
With  well-strung  nerves  and  flying  foot, 
They  madden  on  the  fresh  scent  gain'd, 
All  clamoring  in  the  hot  pursuit. 
Their  yelp  thro'  swamp  and  forest  rings 
Re-echoing  thro'  the  sombre  shade, 
Then  o'er  the  lake  its  music  flings, 
Fainting  and  failing  down  the  glade. 

Soon  a  chang'd  clangor,  shrill  and  sharp, 
Tells  that  the  game,  is  brought  to  bay, 


84  POEMS   OF  THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

And  the  keen  hunter  joyously 
Rides  in  to  mingle  in  the  fray; 
Quick  tethering  to  a  branch  the  steed, 
He  mounts  a  fall'n  tree's  mouldering  heap, 
Looks  to  his  rifle,  then  aloft 
O'er  all  the  woods  his  glances  sweep. 
He  sees  his  prey,  a  panther  huge, 
Perch'd  on  a  chestnut's  soaring  spire, 
Lashing  his  sides  with  swinging  tail, 
His  eyeballs  blazing,  fierce  with  fire. 
One  instant — and  the  hissing  ball 
Tumbles  the  beast  in  fatal  fall. 
With  snapping  jaws  and  gory  fangs, 
Like  fiends  the  mad  packs  tear  and  rend, 
They  crush  the  bone,  they  clutch  the  throat, 
And  soon  the  bloody  contest j3nds. 


POLAR  BEAR.     (Ursus  maritimus.) 

A  MID  the  vast,  eternal  ice, 

The  crystal  plain,  the  drifting  floe, 
Dark  chasm,  awful  precipice, 
Buried  for  ages  deep  in  snow, 
The  polar  white  bear,  grim  and  gaunt, 
Chooseth  his  solitary  haunt. 

In  cavern  with  its  icy  wall, 
With  adamantine  floor  outspread, 
Where  freeze  the  raindrops  as  they  fall, 
Stalactites  glisten  overhead 
Like  pearly  spar  in  grottoes  dim 
That  with  a  prismy  lustre  swim, 
This  monarch  of  the  desert  drear 
Dwells  thro'  the  dark,  inclement  year. 

Little  of  breathing  life,  I  ween, 
Across  the  frozen  waste  is  seen, 
Only  the  screaming  auk  and  gull 
In  restless  flocks  the  breezes  fan, 
And  eider-duck  and  wailing  loon, 
Or  the  white-plumag'd  ptarmigan. 


THE   SAND-HILL    CRANE   OF   MEXICO.  85 

Man  seldom  wanders  o'er  the  plain 
To  trespass  on  thy  savage  reign; 
Only  the  fur-chid  Esquimau, 
T>«  aring  his  bone-lance  or  the  bow, 
Or  crossing  with  his  skin  canoe 
Some  open  water  cold  and  blue, 
.May  venture  to  dispute  thy  sway 
And  dare  thee  in  the  frozen  way. 


THE  SAND-HILL   CRANE  AND   OTHER   WILD   FOWL 
OF   MEXICO. 

TTERE  in  this  genial  Mexic  land, 

Where  soft  is  breeze  and  bright  the  skies, 
Guy  summer  in  December  time, 
The  sportsman  finds  his  paradise. 
Here  rustling  corn-fields  wide  extend, 
Fair  cotton  fields  of  snowy  white, 
With  shallow  pools  o'er  which  the  fowl 
Circle  and  sweep  in  mazy  flight. 

From  every  reedy  pond  and  swamp 
The  hovering  multitudes  upspring, 
In  long  lines  streaming  down  the  air, 
As  o'er  the  flooded  fields  they  wing; 
Mallards  and  widgeon,  redheads,  teal, 
In  wedge-shap'd  masses  skim  the  reed, 
Far-spinning  o'er  the  ripen'd  corn, 
Or  settling  in  moist  lands  to  feed. 

Gray  brant  in  clamorous  columns  sweep, 
Or,  pitching,  from  the  skies  descend; 
The  bronze  curlews  in  long,  black  ranks 
On  even  stroke  of  pinions  tend. 
The  jacksnipes  swarm  in  boggy  ground, 
Hawks  preen  their  wings  in  mesquite  bush, 
The  winnowing  dove-flocks  dense  abound, 
Buzzards  sail  fast  beneath  the  moon, 
And  pelicans  from  far  lagoon. 

The  sand-hill  crane  hath  winter  home 
In  this  serene,  delicious  clime; 


86  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD    AND   GUN". 

Great  flocks  are  ever  in  the  air, 

As  high  the  azure  vault  they  climb. 

Where  fields  are  open  they  are  seen, 

Cluster'd  in  dignified  array, 

Watching  your  step,  with  outstretch'd  neck, 

Or  on  the  wing — a  cloud  of  gray. 

Fairest  of  all  this  feather'd  tribe 
Is  great  white  crane,  the  whooping  crane, 
The  wariest  fowl  of  earth  or  air 
That  haunt  the  pool  or  sweep  the  plain. 
Sometimes  in  zenith  you  behold 
Their  floating  forms  like  specks  of  down, 
In  circles  long,  in  spiral  lines, 
Sending  their  bugle-clamors  down ; 
Sometimes,  commix'd  with  duskier  cranes, 
You  see  them  pass  in  phalanx  slow, 
Keeping  time-stroke  with  flapping  wing, 
Their  plumage  shining  like  the  snow. 

On  every  hand,  duck,  crane,  and  brant 
Flutter  and  swing  in  devious  flight, 
On  soaring  plumes,  in  shining  ranks, 
Circling,  or  stooping  to  alight; 
Their  beat  of  wings  is  like  the  roar 
Of  surges  on  the  rocky  shore, 


ROOKY  MOUNTAIN  GOAT.     (Capra montana.) 

C"\N  Rocky  Mountain  cliff  and  ridge, 

Along  the  shelving  Western  slopes, 
Or  in  green  valleys  at  their  base, 
Where  range  the  graceful  antelopes, 
The  wild  goat  gallops  o'er  the  space, 
Cropping  the  juicy  grass  at  will, 
Or  tasting  the  cold  mountain  rill. 

So  wild  and  wary,  fleet  of  foot 
Surpassing  speed  of  hound  or  horse, 
That  scarce  the  skill  and  arms  of  man 
Avail  to  check  their  headlong  course. 

Where  the  Columbia  River  turns 


THE   SCENERY    AND    GAME   OF   WYOMING.  87 

Its  North  Fork,  near  the  water's  head, 
Their  gather'd  numbers  love  to  gra/.r, 
Far  over  the  gray  summits  spread. 

And  ofttimcs  to  that  solitude 
Come  trapper  and  frontiersmen  rude; 
And  then  for  days  the  cliffs  resound 
With  gun-report  and  hunters'  cheer, 
The  baying  of  the  eager  hound, 
The  gallop  down  recesses  drear. 
There,  then,  o'er  granite  ridge  and  peak, 
O'er  gorge  and  gulch  and  mossy  rock, 
The  hunters  clamber,  climb,  and  cling, 
Pursuing  the  wild  mountain  flock, 
And  at  the  day-close,  spent  with  toil, 
Return  o'erladen  with  the  spoil. 


THE    SCENERY    AND    GAME  OF    WYOMING   TERRI 
TORY. 

^TWILIGHT  silently,  softly  falls, 

Touching  valley  and  grove  with  misty  wand, 
Kissing  the  sky  good-night  at  the  west; 

From  far-off  peaks  of  the  mountain-land. 
All  nature  slumbers  in  perfect  rest, 

Sweet  sleep  the  earth  enfolds. 
Night  lures  to  soft  Elysian  dreams, 

And  far  and  wide  dominion  holds; 
No  sound  invades  save  distant  wail 

Of  coyote  from  the  upland  steep, 
Or  gentle  tinkle  of  a  brook 

In  rocky  butte  or  canon  deep. 

And  here  in  this  Sweet- Water  vale, 

How  pleasant  the  passing  years  should  flow; 
A  vale  engirdled  by  Rocky  Peak, 

A  grand,  majestic  show! 
Far  off  the  Big  Horn  Mountains  swell, 

Where  gallant  Ouster  fought  and  fell, 
Where  buffalo-grass  and  wild  grease-wood 

Have  redden'd  oft  with  human  blood. 


POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AtfD   GUN". 

Here  on  these  measureless  green  plains, 

The  wild  deer  stretch  away  at  speed. 
The  prong-horn'd  antelopes  abound, 

The  lordly  elk  herds  range  and  feed; 
But,  ah,  the  buffalo  that  swept 

These  wastes  a  score  of  years  ago, 
These  grazing-grounds  of  pastures  vast, 

Have  vanish'd  like  last  year's  snow! 
No  more  the  whooping  Indian  spurs 

In  frantic  gallop  on  their  trail ; 
No  more  the  hunter-troops  pursue 

The  fleeing  herds  in  gulch  and  vale; 
No  more  their  bellowing  onsets  sound, 

As  in  fierce  combat  they  engage; 
No  more  with  hoof  they  spurn  the  ground, 

Tossing  their  iron  horns  in  rage. 

So  here  for  ages  was  the  scene, 

The  battle-ground  of  savage  strife, 
Long  ere  the  emigrants  had  come 

To  brave  the  battle-axe  and  knife. 
Here  o'er  these  grassy  meads  they  swept, 

Hunting  the  bison  and  the  deer; 
Rejoicing  in  the  war  and  chase, 

In  forays  of  their  fierce  career, 
With  war  club,  arrow-shaft,  and  spear. 


INDIAN  HUNTERS. 

TO  !  as  I  strive  the  red  man's  fate  to  sing, 

A  sigh  pathetic  sweeps  the  minstrel's  string; 
Fain  would  he  twine  one  mournful  wreath  to  grace 
The  urn  that  holds  the  ashes  of  their  race. 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  Mexic  Gulf  to  Lake, 
Free  as  the  winds  the  wilderness  that  shake, 
Shining  with  arms  majestic,  sternly  grand, 
He  mov'd,  the  guardian  sovereign  of  the  land. 
No  gilded  court,  no  jewell'd  crown,  had  he, 
Nor  silken  slaves  to  bend  the  servile  knee; 


INDIAN   HUNTERS.  89 

No  sumptuous  board,  cnrich'd  with  precious  plate, 

Nor  palace  gorgeous  with  imperial  state; 

No  grand  cathedral,  where  vain  man  adores, 

Through  whose  stain'd  panes  light's  color'd  torrent  pours. 

Not  such  his  state;  the  woods  his  only  home, 

The  hills  his  shrine,  God's  azure  skies  his  dome, 

In  whose  blue  depths  celestial  spirits  seem 

To  bless  the  kneeling  savage  by  his  stream. 

Rough  was  his  garb;  the  hunter's  dangerous  toil 

Clad  his  brown  limbs  with  wild  beasts'  shaggy  spoil; 

The  forest-game  a  frugal  repast  gave, 

His  simple  drink  the  streamlet's  crystal  wave; 

His  home  a  cabin  form'd  of  limb  and  bough, 

His  bark  the  light  canoe  with  bended  prow. 

Content  with  these,  life  tranquil  sped  away, 

A  pleasant  dream,  with  blissful  visions  gay. 

He  lov'd  the  realm  so  brightly  spread  around, 

Rich  with  broad  pastures,  with  wild  wood-lands  crown'd; 

He  loved  his  tribe,  his  children,  and  his  bride, 

Nor  ask'd  for  greater  joys  than  these  supplied. 

When  Twilight  soft  its  roseate  glories  shed, 

And  Eve  her  purple  drapery  cast  around, 
And  up  the  sky  the  Moon  of  harvest  led 

Her  train  of  stars,  on  their  bright  journey  bound, 
Curl'd  the  blue  smoke  from  many  a  cabin  hearth; 

The  evening  air  with  childish  prattle  rang, 
While  aged  chieftains  mingled,  in  the  mirth, 

And  lit  the  pipe,  or  martial  measures  sang. 
Then  loud  his  hollow  drum  the  warrior  smote, 

And  reedy  pipes  with  shrilly  music  sound, 
And  bead-strong  conch,  and  horn  of  startling  note, 

And  jingling  bells  to  youthful  ankles  bound. 
Forth  stepp'd  each  forest  damsel  o'er  the  turf, 

Her  forehead  grac'd  with  many  a  wild  wood  flower, 
And  milk  white  shells  pluck'd  from  the  chafing  surf, 

And  the  blithe  dance  prolong'd  the  festal  hour. 


90  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 


THE  ELK,  OR  WAPITI.     (Cervus  Canadensis.) 

Tj^AR  from  the  cultivated  realm 

Where  human  labor  fells  the  wood, 
Cleaves  the  rich  glebe  and  tills  the  soil, 
Incessant  toiling  for  its  food, 
The  great  Elk  of  the  wilderness, 
Boon  nature's  noblest,  fleetest  child, 
Since  the  Creation  hath  possess'd 
And  rang'd,  untamable,  the  waste, 
Cropt  the  sweet  grasses  of  the  wild, 
In  savage  freedom  roam'd  and  rac'd. 

The  Indian  mounted  on  fleet  steed, 
The  steed  that  needs  not  bit  or  spur, 
The  Blackfoot  and  the  fierce  Sioux, 
Unclad  save  with  the  robe  of  fur, 
Far  o'er  the  prairies'  flowery  plain, 
Far  as  the  Rocky  Mountain  base, 
For  ages  have  pursued  the  herd, — 
The  elk-herd,  madden 'd  with  the  chase. 
But  seldom  white  man  face  to  face 
Hath  met  this  wild,  majestic  game, 
Save  soldier  of  the  garrison 
With  rifle  of  unerring  aim. 

Shy  and  secluded,  far  he  seeks 
In  great  green  woods  his  food  and  rest, 
Browsing  on  tender  twigs  and  buds, 
Or  grasses  spread  o'er  nature's  breast. 
Though  blest  with  matchless  strength  and  speed, 
He  shuns  th'  intrusive  step  with  fear; 
Though  swifter  than  the  antelope, 
Fleeter  than  nimble  forest  deer, 
When  danger  threatens,  and  the  taint 
Of  coming  foe  infects  the  air, 
With  head  erect  and  ears  thrown  back, 
And  eyeballs  fix'd  in  glassy  stare, 
He  eyes  th'  intruder,  bounds  a  step 
As  if  to  try  his  strength  for  flight, 
Then,  startled  with  a  mad  affright, 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THK   BUFFALO.  91 

His  great  horns  thrown  across  his  back, 
His  taper  nose  projecting  far, 
With  mighty  leaps  he  clears  the  ground 
And  vanishes  like  shooting  star. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BUFFALO.    (Bison  Americans.) 

TXTHERE  vast  and  far  the  rustling  grass  burns  with  its  russet 

stain, 

O'er  prairies  lone,  beyond  the  throne,  of  Rocky  Mountain  chain, 
The  lowing  herds,  the  league-long  herds,  of  bisons  roam  the  wild, 
By  streams  serene,  by  meadows  green,  and  where  great  cliffs  are 

pil'd; 

By  willowy  nook  of  crystal  brook,  along  each  ice-cold  brink, 
The  wallowing  crowd,  with   bellowings  loud,    the  gelid   nectar 

drink; 

The  juicy  seeds,  the  tufted  meads,  delight  their  browsing  ranks, 
Where  scarlet  flowers  and  tangled  bowers,  drape  all  the  bloomy 

banks. 

In  sluggish  ease,  beneath  the  trees,  they  pass  the  idle  days, 
While  gleams  the  flood  and  glows  the  wood  in  early  autumn's 

haze; 

But  when  the  breath  of  wintry  death  from  pallid  Northland  blows, 
And  drift  from  out  celestial  domes  the  flaky,  fluttering  snows, 

Then  wide  across  those  prairie-worlds,  by  hillock,  crag,  and  lake, 
Their  armies  vast,  defiling  past,  their  long  migrations  take; 
In  lengthen'd  line,  those  savage  kine,  impetuously  pour, 
As  torrent  swift,  with  wrack  and  drift,  sweeps  by  a  sullen  shore. 

The  hoar-frost  white    spreads   wasteful   blight  o'er    smiling 

nature's  face, 

And  thin  and  dry  the  grasses  sigh,  wide  o'er  the  pasture's  space; 
So,  over  hill,  through  pool  and  rill,  the  crowding  squadrons  flow, 
With  heavy  tramp,  like  routed  camp,  when  storm'd  by  raging 

foe. 


92  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

On  either  flank,  with  clang  and  clank,  each  patriarchal  sire, 
With  lashing  tail  and  coat  of  mail  and  eyeball's  flaming  fire, 
With  forehead  large,  like  iron  targe,  and  horn  like  steely  lance; 
With  flowing  manes,  like  hurricanes  lead  on  the  grand  advance. 

But  hark  !  a  yell!  those  fiends  of  hell,  the  Indian  tribes,  ar  e  out 
The  desert  steed  of  matchless  breed  is  galloping  on  their  route; 
With  brandish'd  spear,  in  fierce  career,  the  impish  riders  wheel, 
The  bow  is  strung,  the  lance  is  flung — the  cruel,  crashing  steel. 

The  pistol  rings,  the  bullet  sings,  demoniac  whoopings  swell; 
Those  Arabs  of  the  prairies  exult  with  shriek  and  yell. 
Vain  all  the  flight,  vain  all  the  fight,  the  vengeful  charges  vain; 
The  bulls  are  down  and  corses  brown  incarnadine  the  plain. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANTS  AND  SQUATTERS. 

"X^EARS  since,  far  in  the  prairie-land, 

The  bold  frontiersmen  press'd  their  venturous  way, 
A  hardy,  brave,  indomitable  band, 

Treading  the  wastes  and  wildernesses  gray. 
The  good  French  Father  from  Canadian  wild 

Came  with  symbolic  cross,  in  coarse  black  gown, 
To  preach  to  Nature's  rude,  untutor'd  child 

Christ's  martyrdom  and  crown  ! 

The  wyageurs  from  Northern  waters  came, 
Singing  gay  songs  as  blithe  they  plied  the  oar; 

The  squatter  kindled  in  the  woods  his  flame, 
The  trapper  would  the  otter-streams  explore; 

And  there,  in  woods  magnificently  grand, 

The  hunter  came,  with  rifle  in  his  hand, 

To  chase  the  elk,  the  buffalo,  and  deer, 

And  gaunt  wolf  howling  in  his  wild  career. 

From  fort  to  lonely,  solitary  fort — 

Thousands  of  miles  they  floated  down  the  stream, 
Startling  the  panther  in  his  lone  resort — 

Where  howl  of  wolf  and  catamount's  shrill  scream 
Fill'd  the  dark  swamps  and  thickets  all  the  day, 
And  thrill'd  the  silent  hours  when  night  was  gray. 


THE   WESTERN   EMIGRANTS   AND   SQUATTERS.         93 

The  seasons  pass'd, — the  tender,  budding  Spring, 
The  ripen'd  Summer  with  its  ilowery  bloom; 

Autumn  with  his  red  offering, 

Winter  that  brought  his  frosty  seal  of  doom; 

And  all  was  wondrous,  beauteous  to  their  eyes, 

Impressive  majesty  and  golden  skies  ! 

Then  came  the  hardy  emigrants  of  old 

From  rough  New  England's  rock-engirdled  coast, 
And  where  Ohio's  crystal  waves  are  roll'd, 

Where  Pennsylvauian  woods  by  winds  are  toss'd; 
From  fair  Kentucky,  with  her  hills  of  green, 

From  broad  plantations  o'er  Virginian  soil — 
All  came,  this  laud  so  glorious,  so  serene, 

To  people  and  redeem  with  manful  toil. 

The  Indians  in  their  native  haunts  beheld 

These  fresh  invaders  with  regardful  eye; 
They  wist  not  then  their  final  doom  was  knell'd 

That  the  poor  red  men  from  their  homes  must  fly ! 
One  bond  of  brotherhood  did  seem  to  bind 

These  divers  races  in  one  social  chain. 
The  red  men  welcom'd  with  a  greeting  kind 

The  coming  stranger  to  his  broad  domain; 
They  pour'd  the  cup,  they  shar'd  the  hunter's  tent, 

They  smok'd  the  pipe  and  told  the  tales  of  war; 
In  marriage-rites  united  they  were  blent. 

In  war,  in  chase,  they  fought,  they  roam'd  afar; 
A  common  bond  of  fellowship  did  hold 
The  Indian  warrior  and  those  hunters  bold. 

But  soon  a  new  race  o'er  the  prairie-plain 

Came  softly,  one  by  one,  with  axe  and  spade; 
Crept  o'er  the  wild  the  farmer's  white-topp'd  wain, 

And  soon  fair  Nature's  bloom  began  to  fade, 
As  the  sharp  plough  cleav'd  smoqthly  through  the  sod, 
And  golden  corn-fields  rustled  o'er  the  clod  : 
The  old  woods  groan'd  and  bow'd  the  lofty  head, 
And  cultivated  glebes  were  wide  outspread. 


94  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

The  Indian  then,  the  skin-clad  trapper  too, 

And  stalwart  hunter  with  his  rifle  true, 

Forsook  their  ancient  haunts  by  stream  and  wood, 

And  pass'd  away  elsewhere  to  seek  their  food ; 

Slow  and  regretful  vanish'd  all  away, 

To  find  new  homes  beyond  the  setting  day  ! 


FRONTIER  HUNTERS. 

TpAR  in  the  distant  West, 

By  the  majestic  stream  and  flowery  plain, 
Where  endless  prairies  stretch  their  wide  domain, 
He  sits  him  down  to  rest. 

Far  from  the  utmost  East — 
Far  from  his  childhood's  roof,  his  early  home — 
The  wanderer's  foot  hath  hither  come  to  roam, 

Where  Nature  spreads  her  feast. 

The  wilderness  around 

Spreads  its  dense  screen — its  thick  primeval  shades — 
Where  the  brown  deer  thro'  all  the  green  arcades 

In  countless  herds  abound. 

The  winds  of  autumn  shake 
The  ripen'd  nuts  from  trees, — a  generous  hoard; 
The  wild  plums  yield  their  offerings  to  his  board 

From  every  bosky  brake. 

The  mast-fed,  growling  bear 
Falls,  to  his  rifle  true,  a  welcome  prey; 
He  slays  the  huge  elk  in  the  forest  way, 

And  the  small  timid  hare. 

Wild  berries,  rich  and  red, 
Crimson  the  ground  with  their  delicious  store, 
Or  from  thick  bushes  their  sweet  treasures  pour, 

While  grapes  hang  overhead.  , 


FRONTIER   HUNTERS.  95 

He  builds  his  cabin  rude 
On  some  fair  knoll  that  overlooks  the  stream, 
And  claims  the  soil  as  far  as  eye  may  beam, 

The  valley,  plain,  and  wood. 

An  empire  he  doth  hold 

Vast  as  the  Old-World  kings  with  sceptre  sway — 
A  natural  garden,  stretching  leagues  away, 

Enchanting  to  behold. 

He  loves  this  noble  land, 
Its  glowing  beauty,  and  its  vigorous  life, 
Its  genial  skies,  its  elemental  strife, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  grand  ! 

Its  loneliness  he  loves, 
And  he  sole  lord  and  monarch  over  all ; 
He  trembles  lest  the  settler's  axe  may  fall 

On  his  far-spreading  groves  ! 

He  dreads  to  see  those  files 
Of  earnest  men,  with  hungry  looks  severe, 
Come  with  their  white-topt  trains  to  people  here 

His  quiet  forest  aisles. 

He  dreads  the  emigrant, 

Coming  with  plough,  and  spade,  and  toiling  team — 
Greedy  invaders  of  his  wood  and  stream — 

Each  well-beloved  haunt. 

But  still  their  armies  come  ! 
Then,  sad  at  heart,  the  red  man's  route  he  takes; 
Over  fresh  plains  and  solitary  lakes 

Still  westward  he  doth  roam  ! 

In  some  unpeopled  glen, 
Far  in  the  untrod  woods  or  savage  waste, 
His  new-found  home,  his  hut  of  logs  is  plac'd, 

Remote  from  haunts  of  men  ! 


96  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AKD   GU2ST. 

THE  CHAMOIS  FLOCKS  OF  SWITZERLAND. 

(Rupicapra  Tragus.} 

TTIGH  rise  the  mountains  round, 

Peak  pil'd  o'er  peak, 
Across  whose  frozen  summits 

The  winds  blow  fierce  and  bleak; 
Like  sheeted  ghosts  they  hover, 

Like  wizard  seers  of  old, 
With  silver  locks  and  streaming  beards 

And  robes  of  snowy  fold. 
Majestic  over  all,  the  brow 

Of  Mont  Blanc  casts  a  frown, 
Crown'd  with  a  regal  diadem, — 

A  jewell'd,  icy  crown. 
He  soars  in  solemn  majesty 

The  monarch  of  the  scene, 
While  round  the  clouds  of  heaven 

Pause,  on  his  breast  to  lean. 

Along  his  airy  summit 

And  round  his  dazzling  head 
No  human  voice  may  whisper, 

No  daring  foot  may  tread; 
For  many  a  frightful  precipice 

Yawns  o'er  the  great  abyss, 
Where  he  would  find  a  sepulchre 

Whose  step  the  way  should  miss; 
Where  scarce  the  daring  hunter 

Who  tracks  the  chamois'  flock, 
Nor  yet  the  toiling  mountaineer, 

May  scale  the  dizzy  rock. 

And  here,  amid  those  lofty  crags, 
The  timid  chamois  feed  and  roam, 

Their  food  the  aromatic  herb, 
The  pastures  of  the  hills  their  home. 


HRANT.  07 

Silent  they  move,  save  when  a  taint 

Of  wolf  or  man  infects  the  air; 
For  then  a  hissing  whistle  bids 

The  browsing  Hocks  beware, 
For  then  the  monarchs  of  the  herd 

With  shrilly  warnings  beat 
The  earth,  and  run  from  rock  to  rock, 

Then  fly  in  swift  retreat. 

In  summer  heats  they  seek  the  shade, 

The  cool,  dim  shade  of  rock  and  cave, 
Where  white  the  crystal  icebergs  cling 

And  streams  the  verdant  grasses  lave, 
And  when  the  savage  winter  reigns 

To  darkest  wilds  they  go, 
Feeding  on  tree-bud  and  the  shrub, 

Upturning  with  their  hoofs  the  snow 
Then  hunters  in  those  lonely  wastes 

With  light  step  stalk  the  prey; 
But,  ah,  beware  of  hoof  and  horn 

When  game  is  brought  to  bay  ! 


SEA  BRANT.     (Anas  Bcrnicla.) 

'IV/f  ID  barriers  of  eternal  ice, 

'Mid  desolated  climes  unknown, 
Within  the  Arctic  Circle's  ring, 

Where  Winter  plants  his  frosty  throne, 
The  brant-geese  all  the  summer  long, 
Feeding,  innumerably  throng. 
But  when  the  waning  season  warns 

The  frozen  regions  to  forsake, 
Those  winged  pilgrims  o'er  the  seas 

Their  long  aerial  journeys  make; 
Wafted  all  day  thro'  realms  of  space, 
At  nightfall  resting  from  the  race. 
At  stations  of  the  Hudson  Bay 

The  Indian  and  the  hunters  rear 


98  POEMS   OP   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Their  ambush  of  the  wattled  reeds, 
Far  o'er  the  salty  meadows  drear, 
And,  simulating  wild-geese  cries, 
They  slay  the  victim  as  he  flies. 

In  all  the  bays  that  line  the  coast 

Honking,  their  feeding  crowds  resort; 
Moveless,  save  rous'd  by  passing  boat 

Or  by  the  gunner's  sharp  report. 
When  tides  are  out  and  flats  are  bare 
The  eel-grass  from  its  roots  they  tear; 
Then,  when  the  swelling  tides  arise, 
Swimming,  they  feast  upon  the  prize. 
When  winds  grow  frosty  and  the  breath 

Of  Winter  all  the  air  congeals, 
The  brant -flock,  soaring  high  in  air, 

In  spiral  circuit  whirls  and  wheels, 
Then,  darting  seaward  on  their  tour, 
Seek  softer  skies  and  sunnier  shore. 


HUNTER'S  CAMP  AT  NIGHT. 

TN  the  thick  darkness  of  the  midnight  woods, 

I  sit  alone  within  my  hemlock  camp, 
Silent  and  thoughtful.     All  about  me  rise 
The  dark,  columnar  giants  of  the  wild, — 
Funereal  hemlock  and  majestic  pine, 
The  gnarled  oak-tree  and  the  quivering  birch. 

And  how  profound  the  hush!  when  evening  threw 
Its  glimmering  shades  across  these  forest  aisles 
The  mingled  voices  of  the  living  world 
Died  out,  and  birds  and  creatures  of  the  wild  were  still, 
The  woodpecker  its  drum-like  tappings  ceas'd, 
The  partridge  sought  her  nest;  the  pied  bluejay 
Ceas'd  its  harsh  clamor,  and  the  pigeon  wild 
Folded  its  azure  pinions  and  was  still. 
As  shades  fell  deep  in  tangled  copse  and  glade, 
The  cawing  crow-flocks  settled  from  their  flight, 
The  high-flying  hawks  descended  from  the  air, 
And  silence  all  around  me  wove  its  spell. 


MEXICAN   HUNTING-GROUNDS   AND   SCENERY.        99 

The  tall  black  trunk*  of  the  great  forest  kings 
That  hcdg'd  me  round  seem'd  all  instinct  with  life; 
Seem'd  to  my  fever'd  fancy  like  the  forms 
Of  the  barbaric  warriors  who  once  trod 
These  lonely  wilds,  majestic,  stern,  and  grave, — 
Those  feather'd  forest  chieftains,  grim,  severe, 
Painted  for  war  and  terrible  with  arms, 
With  quiver,  shield,  and  club,  and  lofty  spear. 
Then  thro'  the  thickening  glooms  would  seem  to  shine 
The  eyeballs  of  wild  creatures,  wolf  and  bear, 
And  great  imperial  stag  with  branching  horns; 
But  when  I  snatch'd  my  rifle  they  would  seem 
To  disappear,  and  melt  away  from  sight. 

Then  sudden  from  the  dry  dead  leaves  around 
I  rais'd  a  camp-fire  that  illum'd  the  woods, 
And  caus'd  how  strange  a  change!  The  sombre  shades 
Vanish'd  away,  and  the  rough  boles  of  trees 
Thro'  all  their  drooping  foliage  shone  and  smil'd 
In  the  blithe,  cheerful  radiance  of  my  fire; 
So  all  the  phantom  spectres  fled  away. 

As  in  my  hemlock  camp  I  sank  to  rest, 
I  felt  secure  in  such  companionship 
Of  those  red  flames  that  seem'd  to  guard  my  couch, 
And  all  the  shapes  that  fancy  conjur'd  forth 
Vanish'd  like  dreams — and  rest  and  sleep  were  sweet. 


MEXICAN  HUNTING-GROUNDS  AND  SCENERY. 

II  on  a  bare  volcanic  cliff 

Above  the  drifting  clouds  I  stand, 

And  gaze  o'er  many  a  shining  league 

Of  the  flowery  Mexic  land; 

Beneath  me  ancient  forests  lie, 

Their  green  tops  rippled  by  the  breeze; 

Their  massive  foliage  heaves  and  rolls 

Like  tumbling  billows  of  the  seas; 

So  thick  they  weave  their  leafy  screen 

That  scarce  a  broken  sunbeam  falls 

Thro'  their  green  arches  to  illume 


100  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

The  sombre  shadows  of  their  halls ; 
And  many  a  gay,  resplendent  vine 
Like  glittering  serpent  climbs  their  tops; 
The  cactus  twines  its  color'd  crowns, 
The  aloe  its  gay  garland  drops; 
And  radiant  birds  with  spangled  wings 
Dart  through  the  forest  openings. 

And  here  the  browsing  deer-herds  roam ; 
Now  scouring  the  extended  plain, 
Now  lost  in  arbor  of  the  wild, 
Now  trampling  by  the  surging  main ; 
And  through  the  thick  umbrageous  depths 
The  shy  wild-turkey  leads  its  brood, 
And  swarms  of  chattering  monkeys  sweep 
Along  the  summits  of  the  wood. 

High  soaring  in  the  empty  air 
Vast  cones  volcanic  rise  like  clouds, 
Each  with  its  vapory  flag  of  smoke 
That  ever  the  tall  height  enshrouds. 
The  Indian,  ages  long  ago, 
Or  ere  the  Spaniard  trod  the  shore, 
With  awe  beheld  those  mystic  flames 
And  hearkeu'd  to  the  crater's  roar; 
Deeming  the  goblins  of  the  mine, 
With  incantations  weird  and  dark 
Mingling  their  orgies  in  the  gloom 
Of  midnight,  lit  each  lurid  spark. 

Far  down,  amid  the  valleys  green, 
Soft  scenes  o'erspread  the  smiling  land, 
Flowers  of  bright  hues  and  fragrant  smell 
Are  sown  broadcast  by  nature's  hand; 
All  the  gay  colors  that  entwine 
The  rainbow,  here  celestial  shine, — 
Each  radiant  with  a  matchless  bloom, 
Each  aromatic  with  perfume. 

Afar  I  hear  the  tinkling  bell 
Of  the  slow  caravan  ascend, 
And  voices  of  the  muleteers 
In  soft,  harmonious  cadence  blend; 
Far-off  o'er  Guatemala's  plain, 


CANVAS-BACK   AND   RED-HEADS.  101 

O'er  peasant  huts  I  see  the  smokes, 
And  from  each  little  chapel  hear 
The  evening  bell's  soft-chiming  strokes. 
And,  glistening  in  the  setting  sun, 
The  distant  city  glitters  bright; 
Belfry  and  cupola  sublime 
Irradiaut  with  the  streaming  light. 


CANVAS  BACK  AND  RED  HEADS. 

Canvas-back  (Anasmlisneriana).     Red-head — Pochard  (Ana* 
ferina). 

TN  sharp  November,  from  afar, 

From  Northern  river,  stream,  and  lake, 
The  flocks  of  noble  canvas-back 

Their  migratory  journeys  make; 
The  frosty  morning  finds  them  spread 

Along  the  flats  of  Barnegat, 
Where  grows  the  Valisneria  root, 

The  duck-grass  with  its  russet  thread; 
But  chief  where  Chesapeake  receives 

From  Susquehanua  brackish  tides. 
By  calm  Potomac  and  the  James, 

Feeding  at  will  from  morn  till  eve, 
'Mid  those  aquatic  pastures  green, 

The  ribbon 'd  grass  and  bulbous  root, 
Where  slant  the  reedy  edges  lean. 

By  thousands  there  the  wild-fowl  come 

To  taste  the  rich,  delicious  fare: 
The  red -head  and  the  canvas-back, 

The  widgeon,  with  his  plumage  rare; 
The  ruddy  duck,  the  buffel-head, 

The  broad-bill  and  Canadian  goose, 
Loving  o'er  placid  shoal  or  cove 

Their  flapping  pinions  to  unloose. 

Through  all  the  day,  dispers'd  around, 
They  swim  and  circle  o'er  the  bay; 


102  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

At  eve,  in  congregated  flocks, 

To  mouths  of  creeks  they  take  their  way; 
While  some  a  wakeful  vigil  keep, 
Others  at  anchor  float  asleep. 

When  winter  early  sharp  sets  in, 

And  frozen  is  the  river's  face, 
To  its  salt  confluence  with  the  bay 

The  flocks  seek  out  their  feeding-place. 
And  where  across  the  ice  a  pool 

Of  open  water  they  discern, 
The  hungry  flocks  their  flight  suspend 

And  toward  the  friendly  pasture  turn ; 
And  there  the  lurking  gunner  waits 

(Amid  the  ice-blocks  hid  from  sight), 
With  heavy  gun  and  deadly  aim 

To  thin  the  numbers  that  alight. 


THE  DUSKY  DUCK.     (Anas  obscura.) 

gEPTEMBER  nights  have  scarcely  felt 

The  first  cool  breath  of  autumn  time, 
Ere  high  the  black  duck  pinions  fan 
Our  shore-line,  in  their  flight  sublime. 

At  first  these  swift  fowl  skim  the  cloud, 
And  high  in  lessening  circles  sweep; 

Then  slow  to  lonely  bays  descend, 
Glad  to  repose  their  wings  in  sleep. 

And  so  for  passing  weeks  they  haunt 
The  inland  marsh  and  muddy  creek, 

Where  in  the  shallows  or  the  grass, 
Their  pastime  or  their  food  they  seek. 

Most  shy,  at  midday  they  disport 

In  ocean  surf  or  ample  bay; 
But  when  the  evening  shades  pervade 

And  fades  the  twilight  of  the  day, 


THE    EAGLE. 

Then  with  a  soaring  flight  they  rise 
And  seek  some  lonely  marsh  remote, 

S.mr  salt-pool  in  the  meadow  scoop'd; 
And  here  their  quacking  numbers  float, 

And  here  the  watchful  fowler  lies 

In  ambush  for  the  dusky  prize. 


THE  EAGLE.     (Ihd'uitus  lucocepluilm.) 

A/fONARCII  of  the  realms  supernal, 

Ranger  of  the  land  and  sea, 
Symbol  of  the  Grand  Republic, 

Who  so  noble  and  so  free? 
Thine  the  boundless  fields  of  ether, 

Heaven's  unfathom'd  depths  are  thine; 
Far  beyond  our  human  vision, 

On  thy  vans  the  sunbeams  shine. 

Borne  on  iron-nerved  pinion, 

Forth  from  Pole  to  Pole  you  sweep, 
O'er  sea-islands,  craggy  mountains, 

O'er  the  blue  and  trackless  deep. 
Now  thy  winnowing  plumes  o'ershadow 

Northern  cliff  and  iceberg  grim, 
Now  o'er  Southern,  soft  savannas, 

Thy  unflagging  pinions  skim. 

Him  who  feeds  the  hungry  raven 

And  the  sea-bird  of  the  rock 
Tempers  the  inclement  breezes 

To  the  shorn  and  bleating  Hock— 
Leads  thee  o'er  the  waste  of  ocean, 

Guides  o'er  savage  wild  and  wood, 
And  from  Nature's  bounteous  storehouse 

Feeds  thy  callow,  clamorous  brood. 

O'er  the  mountains  of  Caucasus, 

Over  Apcnuiue  and  Alp, 
Over  Rocky  Mounts,  Cordilleras, 

O'er  the  Andes'  herbless  scalp; 


104  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AtfD   GTO. 

Far  above  their  snowy  summits, 
Where  no  living  thing  abides, 

HE  that  notes  the  falling  sparrows 
Leads  thee,  watches  thee,  and  guides. 

Thou  wingest  where  a  tropic  sky 

Bendeth  its  celestial  dome, 
Where  sparkling  waters  greet  the  eye, 

And  gentlest  breezes  fan  the  foam ; 
Where  spicy  breath  from  groves  of  palm, 

Laden  with  aromatic  balm, 
Blows  ever,  mingled  with  perfume 

Of  golden  fruit  and  honey'd  bloom. 

Green  shores  adorn'd  with  tropic  wood, 

Gay  grottoes,  island  solitudes; 
Savannas  where  palmettoes  screen 

The  Indian's  hut  with  living  green ; 
A  land  like  visionary  dreams, 

Delicious  with  its  groves  and  streams, — 
Realms  such  as  these  behold  thy  sweep, 

Careering  in  the  upper  deep. 


THE  LITTLE  BEACH  SANDERLING. 

(Calidris  arenaria.) 

~D  Y  the  beach  border,  where  the  breeze 
Comes  freighted  from  the  briny  seas, 
By  sandy  bar  and  weedy  rock, 
I  frequent  meet  thy  roving  flock; 
Now  hovering  o'er  the  bending  sedge, 
Now  gather'd  at  the  ocean  edge; 
Probing  the  sands  for  shrimps  and  shells, 
Or  worms  marine  in  hidden  cells, 
A  restless  and  inconstant  band, 
Forever  flitting  o'er  the  sand. 

Sandpiper! — haunting  every  shore 
Where'er  the  waves  of  ocean  roar; 


THE   LITTLE   BEACH   SAtfDERLING.  105 

Old  voyagers  that  roam  the  deep 

Tell  that  your  dusky  pinions  sweep 

O'er  the  remotest  islands  set 

In  ocean's  emerald  coronet. 

Far  where  Siberian  coasts  extend, 

Far  where  Australian  borders  trend, 

Far  up  the  icy  Labrador, 

Far  where  the  Mexic  billows  pour, 

Are  seen  thy  pinions,  roving  bird  ! 

Thy  melancholy  note  is  heard. 

Years  since — a  wanderer — my  way 
Through  Syria's  desert  regions  lay; 
Around  me,  far  and  wide  the  waste 
Of  desert  limitless  was  trac'd; 
Far  off,  the  blue  Judean  hills 
Threw  up  their  purple  pinnacles; 
Far  off,  the  Lebanon, 
With  all  its  stately  cedars,  shone; 
And  close  at  hand,  with  trampling  feet, 
The  sea  the  yellow  beach  did  beat. 
And,  pacing  slow  that  distant  strand, 
My  thoughts  return'd  to  native  land, 
Sought  like  a  bird  the  distant  home 
O'er  twice  a  thousand  leagues  of  foam; 
When  sudden  the  familiar  cry 
Of  the  small  beach  bird  whistled  by. 
It  was  thy  well-known  pilgrim  flock 
That  flits  by  native  reef  and  rock, 
And  like  a  blessing  did  it  cheer 
My  heart,  and  warble  in  my  ear. 

When  Autumn  lays  his  sultry  hand 
O'er  all  the  glimmering,  ribb'd  sea-sand, 
Then  all  the  lengthen'd  sea-coast  rings 
With  voices,  and  is  bright  with  wings; 
Then  every  shell-strewn  bay  and  cape 
Each  sunken  reef  the  sea-weeds  drape. 
Each  jutting  headland,  and  each  bar 
Where  the  surf  tumbles  fast  and  far, 
Is  winnow'd  by  the  pinions  gray 
Of  sea-birds  sporting  o'er  the  spray. 


106  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 

The  willet  and  the  shrill  curlew, 
The  teal  with  his  gay  wings  of  blue, 
The  golden  plover  and  the  gull, 
Are  there,  in  tempest  and  in  lull; 
But  none  so  dear  to  eye  and  ear 
As  thy  soft  plumes  and  pipings  clear. 


SQUIRRELS.     (Squirelus.) 

TXTHEN  soft  May  breezes  fan  Hi'  awaking  woods, 

And  with  her  fairy  wand  the  blue-ey'd  Spring 
Touches  the  swelling  blossoms  and  the  buds, 
Waving  with  warm  caresses  twig  and  spray, 
So  dead  and  wither'd  in  their  winter  trance, 
Then  from  his  secret  hole  in  mossy  wall 
Or  hollow  tree  the  striped  squirrel  peeps. 
Then  comes  the  saucy  chipmunk  from  his  den 
To  seek  his  food;  he  trips  across  the  road, 
He  skims  the  stony  wall  or  wayside  rail, 
Or,  perch'd  erect  upon  some  swinging  bough, 
Loud  chatters  to  his  mate  in  endless  talk. 
High  up  each  tree  he  clambers,  now  aloft 
Swinging  on  tapering  branch  that  tops  the  wood, 
And  now  darts  down  the  rough  and  gnarled  boles, 
Or  skips  across  the  sward  from  tree  to  tree, 
Then  oft  the  gunner  comes  with  dire  intent, 
Or  idle  schoolboy  in  his  holiday. 

As  fades  the  year  and  falls  the  shivering  leaf 
Forth  come  the  village  maidens  to  the  wood, 
To  gather  the  blue  grapes  that  load  the  vine 
And  dropping  nuts  that  strew  the  forest  floor. 
Then  frequent  on  the  naked  boughs  is  seen 
The  nimble  squirrels.     Now  erect  he  sits 
With  plumy,  bushy  tail  and  uprais'd  paws, 
Seeking  the  nutty  spoil ;  anon  he  leaps 
From  branch  to  branch,  the  gunner's  easy  prey. 

Far  in  the  West,  where  Illinois'  great  stream 
Flows  thro'  the  prairies  islanded  with  groves, 
The  sleek  black  squirrels  build  their  lofty  nests, 


RAHIUT.  107 

And  the  fox-squirrel,  noblest  of  his  race, 

Feeds  on  the  bounteous  mast  that  strews  the  ground; 

At  edge  of  corn  field,  on  some  pasture  oak 

Or  towering  chestnut,  he  delights  to  build, 

And  fills  his  granary  with  ivory  nuts 

And  golden  wheat  and  juicy  Indian  corn. 


RABBIT.     (Lepm  Amerieanus.) 

'rPIS  a  fair  haunt,  a  lovely  scene 

With  vale  and  stream  and  woods  between! 
Yonder  across  the  upland  bill 
The  snowy  sheep  flocks  browse  at  will, 
The  cattle  thro'  the  meadows  sweep 
Where  springs  the  clover,  fetlock  deep, 
The  scented  fields  in  swaths  are  laid 
By  the  swart  mower  with  his  blade, 
While  up  the  winding  dusty  road 
Creaks  the  big  hay-team  with  its  load; 
While  mingled  notes  of  toil  and  play 
Rejoice  the  night  and  charm  the  day. 

The  craggy  woodpaths  all  around, 
And  thickets,  with  the  hare  abound; 
Beneath  some  tussock  close  and  warm 
It  makes  its  leafy-shelter'd  form, 
Or  'neath  a  hollow  tree  or  heap 
Of  stone- wall  where  the  ivies  creep, 
And  there  when  yelping  dogs  pursue 
It,  skulking,  hideth,  lost  to  view. 
Secure  from  hound  and  hunter's  greed, 
At  night  it  ventures  forth  to  feed, 
Nibbling  the  buds  and  grasses  sweet 
That  cluster  round  its  home-retreat, 
Or  feeds  on  berries  that  afford 
A  honey 'd,  an  ambrosial  hoard. 

When  e'er  the  evening  shades  pervade 
The  tangled  copse  and  dusky  glade, 
The  voices  of  the  solemn  night 
Harmonious  swell  as  fades  the  light. 


108  POEMS    OF   THE    HOD    AND    GUN". 

The  cawing  crows,  slow  winging  home, 
Sound  hoarsely  in  the  falling  gloom; 
The  cooing  of  the  blue  wood-dove 
With  plaintive  wail  pervades  the  grove ; 
The  russet  thrush  its  soul  of  song 
Pours  out  melodious  sweet  and  long; 
The  fern-owls  through  the  shadows  wheel, 
The  white  moths  from  their  coverts  steal ; 
The  rabbit  then,  when  all  is  still, 
Limps  from  his  warren  on  the  hill 
To  crop  the  clover  of  the  ground, 
Fearless  of  gun  and  cruel  hound. 

Then  thro'  the  long  moonlighted  night 
It  gambols  in  the  ghostly  light, 
Brushing  the  dews  from  shrub  and  grass 
As  round  in  circling  wheels  they  pass, 
Printing  the  turf  as  if  a  band 
Of  fays  had  come  from  fairy-land. 


RUFFED   GROUSE— PARTRIDGE.     (Tetrao  umbellus.) 

T^THERE  greenwood  shadows  shift  and  swim, 

As  in  cathedral  arches  dim, 
Casting  a  weird  and  solemn  shade 
Thro'  the  primeval  forest-glade, 
While  here  and  there  a  sunny  beam 
Thro'  canopy  and  vault  doth  stream, 
Illuminating  with  its  glow 
The  checker'd  turf  that  spreads  below, — 
There  the  shy  partridge  loves  to  brood, 
Deep  in  the  shelter  of  the  wood. 

High  soars  a  patriarchal  oak, 
Its  umbrage  scath'd  by  lightning-stroke, 
Upon  whose  topmost  bough  doth  dwell 
An  eagle,  monarch  of  the  dell, 
O'erlooking  from  his  eyrie  grand 
The  wide  expanse  of  forest  land ; 
Now  rising  high  in  air  to  sweep 
In  circling  rings  the  upper  deep, 


RUFFED    GROUSE—  I'A  KTKIDGE.  100 

Now  pois'cl  and  balane'd  in  mid-space, 
As  resting  from  his  airy  chase; 
Now  sweeping  downward  on  its  way 
As  pirate  bark  swoops  ou  its  prey. 

Yonder  a  chestnut  grove  is  seen 
Waving  its  royal  Hags  of  green ; 
A  lovely  spot,  a  cool  retreat, 
Where  shade  and  silence  love  to  meet, 
But  in  the  mellow  autumn-time 
(When  brisk  October  breezes  chime, 
When  fruits  arc  ripe,  and  leaves  are  red), 
Vocal  with  music,  loud  with  tread, 
For  there  the  village  children  haste 
The  chestnuts,  brown  and  crisp,  to  taste, 
And  there  the  partridge  loves  to  bring 
Her  young  when  evening  folds  its  wing. 

In  rocky  regions,  where  the  pine 
And  spruce  and  hemlock  intertwine, 
Forming  an  overhanging  roof 
Against  the  rain  and  sunbeam  proof, 
So  dense  that  scarce  a  ray  may  pour 
Across  the  dark  and  russet  floor, 
There  doth  the  speckled  partridge  come 
In  dim  recess  to  make  a  home, 
To  sound  the  drum  or  forth  to  lead 
The  young,  on  berries  ripe  to  feed, 
Prompt  on  affrighted  wing  to  break 
When  foes  the  tangled  thickets  shake. 

They  love  the  lofty,  breezy  height, 
The  hillside  with  its  sunshine  bright, 
The  long,  mountainous  range  of  hills 
Where  bubble  forth  the  crystal  rills, 
Where  oak  and  laurel  intertwine, 
And  shakes  its  plumy  crest  the  pine; 
And  there  they  love  to  lurk  and  feed 
On  fallen  mast  and  dropping  seed; 
And  there  the  red  luxurious  fare 
Of  melting  strawberries  they  share, 
The  partridge-berries'  scarlet  fruit, 
The  blue-berry's  o'erladen  shoot, 


110  POEMS   OF   THE   BOD   AND   GUN. 

And  spicy  bud  and  purple  grape, 
Where  vines  the  sunny  hillside  drape. 

When  bleak  November  hoar-frosts  creep 
Along  the  mountain-ranges  steep, 
They  speed  before  the  rising  gale 
To  seek  some  warm,  sequester'd  vale, 
And  there  where  stood  the  harvest  sheaves 
They  feed  at  will  in  morn  and  eves, 
Gleaning  the  grains  so  honey-sweet 
Of  oat  and  barley,  and  buckwheat, 
Secure  by  day  in  tussocks  green, 
At  night  in  sombre  evergreen. 

PINNATED  GROUSE.     (Tetrao  Cupido.) 

T^THEN  winter  o'er  the  prairie  throws 

Its  mantle  of  the  drifted  snows, 
The  grouse-packs  o'er  the  landscape  white 
In  the  collected  flock  unite. 
On  rail  and  naked  woods  they  brood, 
Denied  the  prairie's  generous  food: 
So  then  the  fowler  seeks  in  vain 
To  harass  them  with  leaden  rain. 
But  when  the  budding  Spring  returns, 
To  scatter  from  her  brimming  urns 
Her  quickening  light,  her  rosy  hues, 
Her  softly  falling  showers  and  dews; 
When  twig  and  branch  in  living  bloom 
Their  vernal  loveliness  resume, 
And  soft  buds  on  each  tender  spray 
Blossom,  and  le"aves  their  palms  display. 
Then  the  great  grouse-flocks  separate, 
Each  pairing  with  some  chosen  mate. 
When  August  and  September  days 
Flush  the  broad  prairies  with  their  blaze, 
The  young  broods,  now  matur'd,  expand 
Their  wings  and  flutter  o'er  the  land, 
Feeding  in  corn-fields  and  in  grain, 
At  mid-day  hidden  o'er  the  plain, — 
Then  sudden  smoke  and  pealing  gun, 
Tell  that  the  sportsman's  joy's  begun. 


WILD    PIGEON.  Ill 


WILD  PIGEON.     (Columba  lieia.) 

rpIIE  autumn  day  is  fleck'd  with  gold, 
As  slow  the  twilight  sun  declines; 
The  western  cloud's  eiicrimsou'd  fold 
With  a  surpassing  beauty  shines; 
And  as  the  decp'ning  shadows  creep 
Athwart  the  glimmering  landscape's  breast. 
And  o'er  the  purpling  mountains  sweep, 
The  drowsy  breezes  sink  to  rest. 
The  roe  buck  to  his  dingle  goes, 
Where  thick  the  wood  its  covert  throws; 
The  red  stag  that  had  paus'd  to  drink 
Beside  the  rivulet's  plashy  brink, 
Exhausted  flings  his  dappled  side 
Along  the  clear,  pellucid  tide. 
'Tis  then  the  pigeons  seek  the  wood 
To  roost,  a  swarming  multitude. 

Deep  in  Wisconsin  wilderness, 
Or  forests  vast  of  Michigan, 
The  bending  boughs  their  bosoms  press, 
The  air  their  clanging  pinions  fan. 
So  great  their  numbers,  hunters  say 
They  bend  the  bough  and  break  the  spray, 
And  when  their  frighten'd  myriads  rise, 
Tis  like  the  thunder  of  the  skies. 

Years  since  in  forests  of  the  East 
They  gathcr'd  to  the  harvest  feast; 
They  swarm'd  by  river  and  by  shore, 
In  vast  flocks  flew  the  pastures  o'er; 
They  swept  innumerable  the  plain, 
Gleaning  the  corn-seed  and  the  grain; 
Then,  winging  to  some  grove  their  flight, 
Sought  roosting-places  for  the  night. 

When  emigration  to  the  West 
In  eager  emulation  prcss'd, 
And  axe  and  plough  and  farmer's  toil 
Open'd  the  treasures  of  new  soil; 


112  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   A^D   GUN". 

And  million  acres  of  the  wheat 
Ripen'd  in  summer's  fervid  heat, 
And  bearded  rye  and  yellow  corn 
Shook  their  bright  tresses  in  the  morn; 
Then  to  those  fields  and  pastures  new 
These  emigrants  on  pinions  flew. 

When  June  with  rose-red  cheeks  aglow 
O'er  banks  wild  strawberries  doth  strew ; 
When  August  on  the  sunny  hills 
With  sweets  the  luscious  blueberry  fills, 
And  o'er  the  heated  pasture  pours 
The  blackberries  in  honey'd  stores, 
And  ripens  on  the  swinging  vine 
The  grapes,  like  amethysts  that  shine, — 
Then  to  this  ripe,  abundant  fare, 
So  sweet,  the  pigeon -flocks  repair, 
Sharing  the  never-cloying  feast 
Our  Maker  offers  to  the  guest. 


SEA-GULL. 

OEA-BIRD,  skimmer  of  the  waves, 
Whither  doth  thy  journey  tend? 
Is  it  to  some  southern  shore, 

Where  the  meadow-rushes  bend, 
Where  the  orange-blossoms  blow, 

Where  the  aloe  and  the  palm 
Flourish,  and  magnolias  glow, 

Filling  all  the  air  with  balm? 

Rather  is  thy  pilgrim  wing 

Fleeting  to  some  northern  bar, 
Where  the  rocky  reef  juts  out, 

And  the  sand-beach  stretches  far? 
There  in  hot  and  silvery  sand 

All  thy  pearly  eggs  to  lay, 
There  to  teach  thy  little  brood 

O'er  the  tumbling  surf  to  play. 


THE   DEATH   OF  THE   LAST  ENGLISH   SPARROW.    113 

Haply  sailing  o'er  the  brine, 

Painted  'gainst  a  lurid  sky, 
On  the  gray  horizon's  verge 

Thou  dost  even  now  descry 
Some  lone  bark  with  shaltcr'd  must, 

Bulwarks  swept,  and  ragged  sail, 
Fighting  with  the  ocean-blast, 

Lost  in  shipwreck  and  in  gale. 

Restless,  roving,  lonely  bird, 

Wanderer  of  the  pathless  seas, 
Now  where  tropic  woods  are  stirr'd, 

Now  where  floating  icebergs  freeze; 
Seldom  doth  the  solid  shore 

See  thy  wings  expand  no  more. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LAST  ENGLISH   SPARROW. 
(Passer  domesticus.) 


song-birds  rejoice  in  valley  and  wood, 
,  For  the  sparrows  have  gone,  that  pestilent  brood  ; 
The  meadow-lark  warbles  his  paeans  of  praise, 
Robin-redbreast  is  sweet  with  his  jubilant  lays. 

The  blue-birds  that  perc'h  on  the  old  garden  gate 
And  the  little  brown  wrens  now  with  joy  are  elate, 
The  blackbirds  with  musical  chatter  declare, 
As  their  hovering  pinions  circle  in  air, 

That  the  fierce,  fighting  sparrows  no  longer  molest, 
To  sting  with  their  bills  or  harrow  the  nest; 
And  no  longer  in  orchard  or  green  forest  glade 
Will  the  haunts  of  the  innocent  warblers  invade. 

The  cat-birds  that  lurk  where  the  thickets  are  dim, 
The  martins  that  round  the  barn  gables  now  skim; 
The  swallows  that  feed  on  the  insects  of  air, 
The  humming-birds  brilliant  as  emeralds  rare  • 
8 


114  POEMS   OF  THE   KOD   AND   GUN. 

The  oriole  splendid  with  purple  and  gold, 

The  bright  little  yellow-birds,  fair  to  behold; 

The  gay  bobolink,  whose  minstrelsy  flows 

Like  the  bubbling  brook  thro'  the  meadow  that  goes; 

The  brown  thrush,  that  hermit  of  deep  solitudes, 
The  lone  chicadee  that  chirps  in  the  woods ; — 
All  these  native  harpists,  a  musical  band, 
Rejoice  that  the  sparrow  is  dead  in  the  land! 

These  foreign  invaders  all  scorn'd  a  fat  slug, — 
Scorn'd  army  worm,  Hessian-fly,  forest-moth,  bug; 
Would  not  feast  on  the  insects  that  poison  the  fruit, 
That  strip  the  green  leaves  which  garland  the  shoot. 

But  stain'd  are  their  bills  with  the  blood  of  the  grape 
Whose  clusters  of  nectar  the  trellises  drape ; 
They  feed  on  the  strawberries,  luscious  and  red, 
And  on  all  of  the  sweets  of  the  garden  are  fed; 

On  the  round  ruddy  globes  of  the  peach-tree,  that  fills 
With  fragrance  the  air  as  the  honey  distils; 
On  the  brown  juicy  pears  that  burst  as  they  fall, 
On  the  sweet  purple  plums  that  droop  o'er  the  wall ; 

On  the  cherries  ambrosial,  whose  clustering  gems 
Clasp  and  crown  the  light  twigs  with  rare  diadems. 
But  now  since  the  sparrows  have  met  with  their  doom, 
The  harvests  may  flourish,  the  gardens  may  bloom. 

Yes!  now  the  broad  acres  of  ripening  grain 
May  brighten  in  sunshine  and  freshen  in  rain; 
The  fruits  of  the  orchard  their  treasures  may  store, 
The  song-birds  may  warble  as  ever  of  yore, 
For  the  sparrows  will  rob  and  molest  never  more, 


DUCK-SHOOTING   IN   BARNEGAT   BAY.  115 


DUCK-SHOOTING   IN    BARNEGAT    BAY. 

JS^OVEMBER  with  its  rosy  light, 

November  with  its  frosty  night, 
November  that  hath  stript  the  woods 
Far  up  in  Northern  solitudes,— 
November,  sharp  November's  here, 
With  its  clear,  crystal  atmosphere. 

The  breeze  is  fresh  upon  the  bay, 
The  white  caps  o'er  the  billows  play; 
The  east  wind  bloweth  from  the  seas 
A  brisk,  invigorating  breeze. 
From  distant  shore,  remotest  rock, 
Comes  down  the  migratory  flock. 
From  Baffin's  Bay,  from  Labrador, 
From  Canada,  those  legions  pour, 
From  where  the  stormy  waters  break 
Along  the  vast  Superior  Lake, 
From  Winnepeg  and  Lake  of  Woods, 
From  Saginaw's  transparent  floods, 
From  Hudson  Bay's  remotest  isles, 
From  where  the  Manitoba  smiles, 
They  come,  the  winged  armies  come, 
To  seek  in  gentler  climes  a  home. 

Hark!  hark!     When  evening's  dusky  gloom 
Prevails,  and  twinkling  stars  illume, 
And  new  moon  curv'd  like  Indian  bow, 
Sails  up  the  skies  serene  and  slow, 
Then  fast  upon  the  breeze  of  night, 
Loud  honking,  come  the  wild-geese  flight, 
Slow  circling  o'er  the  sleeping  bay 
In  lengthen'd  file  or  close  array; 
They  hover  ere  they  sink  to  rest, 
Wing-weary,  on  the  water's  breast. 

On  muddy  flat  by  marshy  sedge, 
In  shallows  at  the  channel-edge, 
The  wild-ducks  from  the  North  and  East 
In  numerous  gather  to  the  feast. 
Oh!  far  and  fast  theii  flight  hath  been, 
ITrom  distant  stream  and  marshes  green, 


116  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Where  since  the  springtime's  earliest  days 
They've  linger'd,  their  young  broods  to  raise, 
And  now  the  gusty  north  winds  pour 
Their  winnowing  pinions  to  our  shore. 

The  shy  black-duck  voracious  feeds 
On  the  long  duck-grass  with  its  seeds, 
And,  as  he  plumes  his  dusky  wing, 
Suspicious  glances  round  doth  fling, — 
He  scents  his  foeman  in  the  air. 
A  flashing  oar-blade's  sudden  glare, 
A  crackling  reed,  a  bending  grass, 
Alarm  them,  and  away  they  pass. 
With  one  quick  spring  they  upward  dart, 
And  like  an  arrow-flight  depart. 

The  whistling  widgeon,  from  their  flight 
Afar,  in  countless  flocks  alight. 
They  skim  the  flats,  they  skirt  the  shore, 
They  shyly  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Ere  on  the  feeding-grounds  they  stoop 
In  broken  file  or  muster'd  group; 
And  when  the  day  is  dark  with  rain, 
And  shrill  the  piping  winds  complain, 
Their  restless  flocks  flit  to  and  fro, — 
Now  soaring  high,  now  pitching  low. 

The  canvas-backs  from  northern  coast, 
And  red-heads,  an  unnumber'd  host, 
In  watery  pastures  to  repose 
Hasten,  their  flagging  wings  to  close. 
The  gray  duck  and  the  dipper  come, 
The  brant-geese  from  the  ocean-foam, 
The  brilliant  mallard,  and  the  teal 
With  eye  of  light  and  wing  of  steel, 
All  gather  in  the  autumn  day 
To  haunt  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

Hid  in  the  sedge-grass  of  the  shore, 
The  fowlers  their  thick  ranks  explore, 
They  anchor  their  decoys  and  wait, 
Impatient,  yet  with  joy  elate; 
They  pour  the  volleying  shot  like  rain, 
And  joyful  number  up  the  slain. 


MY    PARKER   GUN.  117 


MY    PARKER   GUN. 

TX7IIEN  the  dew  is  on  the  grass,  and  the  corn-leaves,  thin  and 

white, 

Are  rustling,  are  tinkling,  in  October's  dawning  light; 
When  the  filmy  mists  from  river,  from  thicket,  and  from  wood 
In  silvery  wreaths  are  rising  over  meadow,  over  flood, 
Then  I  follow  hard  the  quail,  the  speckled,  piping  quail, — 
Thro'  stubble  of  the  oat-field,  thro'  wheat-field  of  the  vale, 
With  my  trusty  Parker  gun. 

When  the  wind  is  on  the  bay,  and  November  breezes  play 
O'er  the  marshes,  o'er  the  'shallows,  o'er  the  sandbars  and  the 

spray; 
When  the  wild-geese  flocks  are  passing  and  the  hovering  brant 

are  massing, 

And  the  bluebills  and  black-duck  are  multitudes  surpassing— 
When  the  canvas-backs,  the  red-heads,  the  mallards,  and  the  teal 
In  great  flocks  are  circling,  as  o'er  the  wave  they  wheel, 
Then  I  seize  my  Parker  gun. 

When  the  midday  August  heats,  in  shady  swamp  retreats, 
O'er  alders  of  the  rivulet  with  sultry  fervor  beat; 
When  thro'  the  bowery  shades  scarce  a  sunbeam  bright  pervades, 
And  the  startled  woodcock  breaks  thro'  the  thick-entangled  glades, 
Then  my  Parker  gun  resounds. 

When  September  breezes  pass  o'er  the  waving,  billowy  grass; 
O'er  the  herbage  of  the  prairies,  o'er  the  far-extended  plain; 
When  the  speckled  grouse-flocks  spring  on  the  upward  soaring 

wing, 

O'er  the  uplands,  o'er  the  woodlands,  and  the  stubbles  of  the  grain, 
Re-echoes  then  my  gun. 

When  the  summer  breezes  play, "o'er  the  twinkling  open  bay, 
O'er  the  shallows,  o'er  the  coves,  o'er  the  sand-spits  of  the  shore, 
When  the  snipe-flocks  are  speeding,  and  the  jack-curlews  are 

feeding, 

And  yellow-shanks  and  brant-birds  in  airy  circles  soar, 
Then  I  ply  my  Parker  gun. 


118  POEMS   OF  THE   EOD   AND   GUN. 

And  when  the  green-back  plover,   over  plains  of    Montauk 

hover, 

And  gray-backs  and  black-breasts  are  speeding  on  their  way, 
Then  I  set  my  wood  decoys,  and  the  volleying  flame  destroys 
The  frighten'd  flock,   the  bleeding  flock,  that  o'er  my  covert 
sways, 

When  I  raise  my  Parker  gun. 

And  ah!  what  joy  I  take,  where  the  ocean  billows  break 
O'er  the  islets,  o'er  the  bars  of  the  green  Virginian  land, 
When  the  crispy  yellow  sedge  at  the  water's  rippling  edge 
Is  alive  with  duck  and  snipe,  and  I  eager  grasp  in  hand 
My  beloved  Parker  gun! 


WOOD-DUCK.     (Anas  sponsa.) 

TN  May-time,  when  the  lilac-plumes 

Droop  from  the  branch  their  purple  blooms; 
When  chestnuts  clap  their  leafy  hands, 
And  every  bud  with  joy  expands; 
When  in  the  moist,  sequester'd  nooks 
Of  woods  is  heard  the  call  of  brooks, 
The  wood-duck  builds  its  downy  nest, 
Secure  from  prowling  schoolboy's  quest. 

The  swampy,  shallow  creeks  they  haunt, 
Where  thick  woods  o'er  the  waters  slant, 
Whose  interlacing  branches  make 
A  dusky  evening  in  the  brake ; 
And  there  their  little  nests  are  made 
In  hollow  mossy  log  decay'd, 
Or  where  the  woodpecker  had  bored 
The  crumbling  bark  to  hide  his  hoard, 
Fast  by  the  stream  whose  ripples  beat 
The  tree-roots  of  their  close  retreat. 

Most  beauteous  of  all  the  race 
That  skim  the  wave  or  soar  in  space, 
With  plumage  fairer  than  the  rays 
The  bird-of- paradise  displays, 


SUMMER   WOODCOCK-SHOOTING.  119 

A  mottled  purple  gloss'd  with  green, 
All  colors  in  the  rainbow  seen ; 
No  tropic  bird  of  Indian  skies 
May  rival  thy  imperial  dyes. 

Least  wary  of  all  fowl  that  wing 
O'er  salty  bay  or  inland  spring, 
They  haunt  the  pond  whose  reedy  shore 
Extendeth  by  the  farmer's  door, 
Or  rivulet  whose  waters  trill 
Their  melodies  below  the  mill; 
And  here  the  ambush'd  gunner  lies 
To  gather  in  his  lovely  prize. 

Fair  are  thy  haunts,  O  bird  that  glows 
With  hues  of  violet  and  rose, — 
By  lakelet,  by  transparent  stream, 
Fair  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
Fair  with  the  drooping  groves  that  throw 
Their  shadows  o'er  the  current's  flow; 
Fair  with  the  bordering  slopes  that  lave 
Their  grasses  in  the  crystal  wave, — 
The  crystal  wave  reflecting  back 
The  sky-cloud  drifting  on  its  track, 
Where  morn  and  eve  enfold  their  wing 
Celestial,  and  the  bluebirds  sing. 

SUMMER  WOODCOCK-SHOOTING.     (Scolopax  minor.) 

rriIE  July  noonday  swoons  with  heat, 

Yet  pleasant  is  the  wood's  retreat, 
For  there  the  drooping  branches  spread 
A  checker'd  umbrage  overhead. 

Where  scarce  the  sun-spears,  quivering  bright, 
May  pierce  the  foliage  with  their  light, 
Ah !  there  so  shadowy  sleeps  the  wood 
Where  hermit  woodcock  seek  their  food, 

(Piercing  with  bill  the  oozy  edge 
Of  stream  where  bends  the  water-sedge), 
That  well  the  gunner  may  invade 
The  cool  recesses  of  the  shade. 


120  POEMS   OF  THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

The  alders  there  weave  densest  screen, 
The  willows  lift  their  shields  of  green ; 
The  woodbine  twines  its  glossy  crown, 
The  grapevine  drops  its  garlands  down. 

There  coppice  thick  and  thicket  dense, 
That  hem  the  brook  with  thorny  fence, 
Unite  their  verdurous  shades  to  greet, 
In  woodcock  haunts,  the  sportsman's  feet. 

Turn,  gunner,  then  from  harvest  vale, 
From  wheat-fields  haunted  by  the  quail, 
For  not  yet  may  the  gun  molest 
T.he  bevies  of  the  quail  in  nest. 

Spare  thou  those  russet-plumag'd  flocks, 
Till  ripen'd  corn  is  heap'd  in  shocks, 
And  all  the  sumptuous  golden  grain 
Is  garner'd  from  the  harvest  plain. 

For  then,  in  sharp  October  days, 
The  quail-flock  through  the  stubble  strays; 
And  pealing  shot  and  smoking  gun 
Will  boast  of  ample  triumphs  won. 

But  rather  seek  the  pi  ashy  swale, 
Low  in  the  moist  and  boggy  vale, 
Or  pass  thro'  bushy  swamps  that  hide 
With  briery  hedge  the  brooklet  side. 

These  shy,  secluded  birds  all  day 
In  cool,  thick-shaded  haunts  delay ; 
But  when  the  woods  at  eve  are  dim 
To  open  feeding-grounds  they  skim. 

They  bore  for  larvae  in  the  soil, 

Or  marsh-worms,  with  a  greedy  toil; 

Loving  in  springtime  to  arise 

In  spiral  circles  to  the  skies; 

But  ever  'tis  a  welcome  mark 

In  open  glade  or  woodland  dark. 


THE    DEEll    PASS. 


THE    DEER    PASS. 

(Suggested  by  a  Painting  by  Ldttdscer.) 

r  |M  I  ERE  hangs  a  noble  picture  on  my  wall, 

A  matchless  landscape  of  the  Scottish  land, 
A  Landsecr  poem  of  the  mountain-range! 
A  stream,  now  crystal-clear,  now  halcyon-calm, 
Leaps  madly,  rushing  down  the  ravines  dark, 
'Mid  boulders  of  the  splinter'd  granite  rock, 
Foaming  and  Hashing  on  its  stormy  way. 

In  foreground  of  the  picture  stands  a  group 
Of  the  red  deer  that  haunt  the  Scottish  hills; 
A  stately  stag,  with  branching  antlers  crown'd, 
With  ears  erect,  as  looking  for  his  foes, 
And  round  him  flocks  of  browsing  brindled  does, 
And  their  shy  fawns  of  graceful,  sk-nder  limb; 
With  their  small  heads  erect,  as  if  they  caught 
Some  taint  of  danger  poisoning  all  the  air. 

These  stand  on  ample  plateau  of  the  cliffs, 
Where  sight  may  all  the  dim  horizon  scan, 
The  verdant  valleys  and  the  heathery  downs, 
The  gray  old  castles  and  baronial  halls, 
And  plains  with  farms  and  villas  overspread, 
So  that  no  daring  mountaineer  might  climb 
The  rugged  fastnesses  and  'scape  their  view; 
Nor  unseen  might  the  chieftain  of  these  hills, 
With  all  his  tartan'd,  kilted  clansmen  come 
With  rifle  and  with  hound  to  work  them  harm. 

Beneath  that  foremost  group,  a  darkling  tarn,' 
A  rock-girt  pool  of  inky  water  spreads, 
O'er  which  no  clump  of  gloomy  fir-trees  rise, 
But  only  the  lush  ferns,  by  autumn  touch'd, 
And  moss  and  heath  embroider  the  low  marge. 
In  rear,  a  winding  road  of  beaten  track 
Runs  up  the  hills,  where,  scatter'd,  cropping  herds 
Wander  at  will ;  here  half  hid  'mid  the  crags, 
Here  full  in  view,  reclin'd  upon  the  turf. 

In  the  far  distance,  soaring  high  in  air, 
The  beetling  summits  of  the  mountains  sweep, 


122  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Half  hid,  half  seen  amid  the  floating  clouds 
And  misty  vapors  of  the  empty  air. 
'Tis  a  grand  scene,  majestic  and  sublime ! 
Worthy  the  painter's  brush,  the  poet's  pen; 
A  vast  assemblage  of  high-soaring  peaks, 
Granitic  slopes,  and  dark  defiles  and  dells, 
And  falling  torrents,  glistening  in  the  light; 
Roam'd  by  the  graceful  deer-herds  of  the  wilds. 


WATCHING  FOR  DEER. 

/^\UT  in  the  woodlands  all  alone, 

Out  in  the  forests  dim  and  drear, 
I  lay  with  rifle  at  my  side, 

In  earnest  watching  for  the  deer. 
I  seem'd  like  sentinel  of  the  war 

On  distant  outpost  for  vigil  plac'd, 
Guarding  the  dangerous  picket-ground, 

As  to  and  fro  on  my  beat  I  pac'd. 
How  intent  I  mark'd  the  hostile  camp, 

The  flash  of-steel  in  the  order'd  line, 
The  gallop  of  horsemen  on  the  march, 

The  gleam  where  the  big  brass  cannon  shine! 

E'en  so,  through  the  long  arcades  of  woods, 

Through  the  column'd  ranks  of  giant  trees, 
Through  tangled  thicket  of  bramble  and  weed, 

My  glance  every  moving  object  sees. 
I  see  the  rabbit  leap  through  the  glade, 

The  squirrel  clamber  the  gnarled  oak, 
The  speckled  partridge  lead  forth  her  brood, 

The  eagle  sail  o'er  with  pinion-stroke; 
But  still  no  form  of  the  dappled  doe, 

No  branching  antler  of  noble  stag, 
Were  seen  in  the  vast  expanse  of  woods, 

O'er  grassy  slope  or  rocky  crag, 
All  still  and  solemn  as  lonely  grave; 

No  rustling  stir  of  the  leaves  in  air; 
All  nature  seem'd  in  a  drowsy  swoon, — 

No  life-throb,  no  pulsation  there ! 


WATCHING   FOR   DEER.  123 

The  sluggish  river  that  wundcr'd  by 

Slipt  noiseless,  voiceless,  on  its  way; 
No  ripple  of  laughter  in  its  course, 

No  prattle  of  merriment  gay; 
It  seem'd  as  if  alone  in  the  world, 

Aloof  from  human  kind  I  stood, 
With  naught  above  but  the  silent  skies, 

Naught  around  but  the  lonesome  wood. 

Then  methought  a  feeble  and  fitful  sound 

Came  wafted  along  the  fields  of  air, 
A  whisper-like  moan  of  the  distant  surf, 

Or  sigh  through  the  grass  of  uplands  bare. 
Is  it  the  cry  of  the  hunting  pack? 

Is  it  the  clamorous  yelp  of  the  hounds? 
Yes,  for  I  see  them  in  far-off  glade, 

I  see  them  burst  through  brier  and  vine; 
I  see  them  dash  through  the  shallow  stream, 

Now  group'd  together,  now  rang'd  in  line. 
Fast  through  the  forest,  fast  they  speed, 

Fast  by  the  herbless  and  treeless  waste; 
Onward,  remorseless  as  cruel  death, 

Onward  they  press  in  tireless  haste. 
And  there  at  their  head,  at  brief  advance, 

I  see  a  stately  stag  in  career, — 
A  stag  that  bounds,  that  struggles  for  life, 

The  proud,  the  hunted,  the  frantic  deer. 
Nearer,  yet  nearer  the  quarry  comes, 

Panting,  exhausted,  well-nigh  spent; 
And  ere  my  levell'd  and  deadly  tube 

Its  leaden  message  had  surely  sent, 
The  poor,  tir'd  creature's  dying  sigh 

Was  heard,  and  the  hound's  exultant  cry. 


124  POEMS   OF   THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 


REINDEER.     (Germs  tarandus.) 

TpAR  spread  thy  bleak,  inclement  solitudes, 

O  Lapland !  girdled  in  by  icy  seas, 
And  friug'd  by  icebergs  and  the  crystal  floes, — 
Floes  all  adrift  in  flow  and  ebb  of  tides, 
Grinding  o'er  rocks  and  sands  that  skirt  the  shore. 

In  lapland  realms  run  mountainous  defiles, 
Peak,  pinnacle,  and  cliff,  and  gulches  grand — 
A  bleak  and  barren,  desolate  expanse, 
Seam'd  with  black  ridges,  with  white  torrents  swept, 
And  in  the  winter-times  untrod  by  man. 

Here  dwell  the  herdsmen  all  the  summer-time, 
Here  rear  their  log- built  cottages  and  huts, 
And  make  their  homes  along  the  mountain-slopes, 
And  lead  a  social  and  a  cheerful  life; 
But  when  the  winter  threatens,  they  migrate, 
With  all  their  flocks  and  herds,  to  milder  climes. 

Herding  their  thousand  reindeer  in  the  plains, 
More  frightful  far  are  all  these  dreary  wastes, 
Than  those  wild  mountain- slopes  and  rugged  crags, 
For  here  stretch  savage  roads  and  barren  plains, 
Trees  without  fruit,  and  pastures  verdureless! 
Far  as  the  eye  may  reach  can  naught  be  seen 
But  sterile  fields;  no  landscapes  flowery, 
No  springing  grass,  no  harvests  of  the  grain. 
Here  the  white  mosses  o'er  the  acres  spread, — 
Moss  white  as  snow  and  ghastly  to  behold. 
Yet  bounteous  nature  yields  this  precious  food, — 
The  sole,  poor  food  the  reindeer  herds  may  crop. 
Thick,  dark  around  the  gloomy  forests  bend, 
Shrouded  with  blacken'd  moss  in  hideous  gloom; 
Dark,  trailing  mosses,  like  funereal  flags 
That  droop  their  festoons  in  cathedral  aisles. 

All  summer  long  the  gadfly  and  the  gnat 
Torment  the  herds  that  browse  the  mossy  plain ; 
But  when  the  winter  kills  those  insect  pests, 
And  herdsmen  fill  the  valleys  with  their  herds, 


HAUNTS  OF  THE  ASIATIC   LEOPARD    AND    PANTHER.    125 

His  pallid  moss,  so  grievous  to  the  sight, 

Seems  to  the  Laplander  a  treasure  rich, 

His  only  harvest,  for  it  feeds  his  flocks, 

And  is  to  him  the  choicest  hoon  of  earth. 

While  it  o'erspreads  his  endless  dreary  moor 

He  envies  not  the  verdure  and  the  bloom 

Of  southern  landscapes  with  their  fruitful  wealth. 

Clad  in  his  deerskin  garb,  he  drives  his  herds, 

Fearless  and  careless,  o'er  the  desert  space, 

Asking  no  fare  luxurious,  but  content 

With  the  pure  milk  and  smoke-dried  flesh  they  yield. 

Ah,  who  so  happy  as  the  Laplander! 
When  the  glaz'd  snow  is  crusted  with  clear  ice, 
And  fur  and  fast  for  many  a  lengtheu'd  league, 
Warm  in  his  sledge,  he  urges  on  his  team. 
Swift  as  a  courser  in  the  race- course  field, 
Swift  as  a  war-horse  in  the  shock  of  arms, 
The  flying  reindeer  skims  along  the  plain, 
And  skirts  the  gloomy  wood  in  matchless  speed. 


HAUNTS    OF     THE    ASIATIC    LEOPARD    AND    PAN 
THER.     (Felis  Leopard us.) 

TN  India's  realm,  where  nature's  affluent  hand 

Pours  from  her  urn  rich  treasures  o'er  the  land, 
The  dark-hued  Indian  drowsily  reclines 
By  shadow'd  stream,  beneath  luxuriant  vines; 
Doom'd  to  light  toil  where  thick  the  honey'd  fruit 
Invites  his  taste  from  many  a  burden'd  shoot; 
Where  the  banana  and  the  orange  pour 
Around  his  way  their  free  and  bounteous  store; 
Where  the  rough  cactus  yields  its  juicy  pear, 
And  ripe  pineapples  perfume  all  the  air. 

'Tis  a  fair  land,  where  plants  of  matchless  dyes 
Paint  all  the  soil,  as  rainbows  flush  the  skies; 
A  solemn  land,  where  forests  rise  sublime, 
In  whose  green  depths  soft  fall  the  steps  of  Time! 
Enchanted  land,  whose  mountain  summits  glow 
With  the  white  lustre  of  eternal  snow ; 


126  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN". 

A  realm  in  whose  grand  wilderness  abound 
The  great  wild  creatures  of  the  forest-ground. 

How  fair  those  groves,  how  clear  the  bubbling  streams 
In  Asiatic  realms  where  Ganges  gleams, 
And  thro'  savannas  murmuringly  glides, 
Until  it  mingles  with  the  Bengal  tides! 
Behold !  far  down  the  mountain  solitudes, 
Beneath  the  line  of  snow,  the  bending  woods, 
Kiss'd  by  the  sunbeam,  all  their  colors  blend, 
While  far  away  the  verdurous  plains  extend. 
Enchanting  pictures  of  commingled  bloom 
Burst  on  the  vision — spice- wood  lends  perfume, 
Citron  and  orange  glisten  on  the  shoot, 
The  brown  pomegranate  drops  its  lucious  fruit, 
Luxuriant  vines  swing  high  the  purpling  grape, 
And  loftiest  trees  with  graceful  festoons  drape, 
'Tis  a  fair  scene  where  Peace  drops  down  to  rest, 
Folds,  like  a  bird,  her  pinions  o'er  her  breast; 
Where  all  the  glimmering  shades  at  hour  of  eve 
Their  filmy  veils  and  vapors  interweave. 

There  the  strip'd  tiger  has  his  chosen  home, 
And  there  the  tawny,  savage  panthers  roam, — 
Panthers  more  fierce  than  tigers  gaunt  and  grim, 
Or  leopards  perilous  to  life  and  limb, 
More  valorous  in  charges,  more  fierce  to  meet 
Than  all  the  prowlers  of  the  wood's  retreat. 
While  over  all  the  Central  India's  space 
The  panther  lurks  for  man,  the  leopard  race 
Stealthy  and  noiseless  creep  thro'  rocky  pass 
And  lie  conceal'd  in  tangle  of  the  grass; 
Then,  springing  agile  from  some  branching  spray, 
They  strike  the  victim  and  secure  the  prey. 
There  where  the  jungle-swamps  the  lagoons  drape 
They  seize  the  monkey  tribes,  the  gibbering  ape. 
The  sand-grouse  first  seek  out  that  forest  lake, 
There  speckled  pea-fowl  haste  their  thirst  to  slake, 
There  spotted  deer  and  antelope  and  bear 
Gather  at  midnight  in  that  darkling  lair, 
And  soon  the  leopard  and  the  panther  brood 
Share  the  gorg'd  feast  and  revel  in  the  blood. 


THE   HUNTER   AND   TRAPPER.  127 


THE  HUNTER   AND  TRAPPER. 

TN  the  dusk  and  hush  of  the  woods, 
Far  away  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
Now  o'er  the  steep  mountain-slopes, 

Now  deep  in  some  darkling  glen, 
I  rove,  and  I  pitch  my  camp, 

Alone  in  the  wilderness, 
Where  ne'er  human  voices  may  curse, 

Or  human  lips  may  bless. 

My  home  is  a  wide,  humble  place 

Without  fa9ade  or  column  or  dome, 
No  sumptuous  hall  to  invite, 

No  marble  palatial  home; 
No  gilded  and  groin'd  lofty  roof, 

No  walls  resplendent  with  art; 
No  sculptures,  no  paintings  renown'd, 

So  dear  to  the  proud  human  heart. 

My  home  is  at  base  of  a  rock, 

With  the  wild  vines  and  mosses  o'ergrown, 
O'er  which  an  imperial  oak 

Its  shelter  majestic  hath  thrown. 
A  pure,  merry  brook  runneth  by, 

It  prattles  and  talks  to  me  long; 
It  gives  me  cool  nectar  to  taste, 

And  it  charms  with  perpetual  song. 
Sweet  twigs  of  the  cedar  my  couch, 

My  roof  is  of  willow  and  reed, 
And  the  bark  of  the  birch-tree  my  wall, 

And  no  better  protection  I  need. 

I  am  free  as  the  breezes  of  air, 
I  roam  o'er  the  mountains  at  will, 

In  the  depths  of  the  forest  I  plunge 
And  scale  the  bald  cliffs  of  the  hill. 


128  POEMS   OF  THE   BOD   AND   GtHST. 

I  follow  the  tracks  of  the  deer, 

The  panther  I  seek  in  his  lair, 
And  I  dare  in  his  cavernous  haunt 

The  tusks  and  the  claws  of  the  bear. 
My  iron-tooth'd  snap-traps  I  set 

For  the  beaver,  the  otter,  and  mink, 
By  the  shore  of  the  forest-fring'd  lake, 

Or  fast  by  the  rivulet's  brink. 
1  know  not  a  sorrow  or  care, 

Remorse  or  regret  or  despair ; 
I  rejoice  in  the  vigor  of  health, 

And  pine  not  for  honors  or  wealth. 

REVISITING  IN  FANCY  THE  GROUSE-SHOOTING 
PLAINS  OF  ILLINOIS  AFTER  THIRTY  YEARS' 
ABSENCE. 

(~YER  prairies  green  of  Illinois, 

O'er  pastures  measureless,  I  tread ; 
A  flowery  garden  all  around, 
An  azure  firmament  o'erhead; 
No  tufted  grove,  no  woodland  wide 
Within  the  circuit  of  the  plain, 
Only  a  billowy,  grassy  slope, 
Like  rolling  hillocks  of  the  main. 
These  are  the  same  fair  scenes  I  knew 
More  than  a  score  of  years  ago ; 
These  the  same  grassy  meadows  spread, 
These  the  same  flowers  that  used  to  blow; 
But  all  how  changed! — the  pastoral  scene, 
These  peopled  spaces  all  seem  new, 
For  farm  and  villa  crowd  the  waste, 
And  cities  flash  upon  the  view. 

The  songbirds  sing  in  orchard  tree, 
The  blackbirds  swell  their  tuneful  trill, 
The  meadow  lark  delights  the  plain, 
The  bluebird  chants  on  wooded  hill; 
But  ah !  the  speckled  grouse  forsake 
The  stubble-field,  the  corn-field's  edge; 
No  more  the  mottled  flocks  abound 


GROUSE-SHOOTING    PLAINS   OF   ILLINOIS.  129 

O'er  open  waste,  by  wayside  hedge ; 

I  may  not  rouse  them,  as  of  old, 

Across  the  broad  and  boundless  plain, 

Feeding  where  harvest  wheat-fields  spread, 

Where  wav'd  the  golden  shocks  of  grain. 
Where  stretch'd  in  olden  days  gone  by 

The  prairie's  limitless  expanse; 

Where  swept,  o'er  flowery  meads,  the  breeze, 

Rejoicing  in  the  sunbeam's  glance, 

I  see  new  villages  extend, 

Villa  and  town,  and  rural  grange, 

The  fresh  turf  broken  by  the  plough, 

The  old-time  landscape  new  and  strange; 

The  peaceful  coverts  of  the  game. 

Of  grouse,  of  woodcock,  of  the  quail, 

Invaded,  where  the  poacher's  net 

And  ploughboy's  lawless  guns  prevail. 
The  emigrants  from  foreign  lands 

Have  here  with  white-topp'd  wagons  come, 

Forsaking  the  ancestral  roof 

To  find  on  virgin  soil  a  home; 
And  here  like  swarming  bees  they  pour, 
They  fell  the  wood,  they  sow  the  plain, 
And  the  wild  forest  deer  and  grouse 
Affrighted  flee  from  their  domain. 
Well  I  recall  those  blissful  days, 
The  joyous  days  long  since  I  pass'd,— 
The  crimson  morns,  the  dewy  eves, 
Too  sweet,  too  glorious  to  last, — 
When  by  Fox  River's  crystal  tide 
I  sought  the  duck,  I  slew  the  quail; 
When  by  Rock  River's  grassy  edge, 
O'er  prairie  plain,  o'er  verdurous  vale,  • 

I  follow'd  the  brown  quarry's  flight, 
Seeking  in  upland  and  in  dale 
The  sportsman's  pastime  and  delight. 

Then  few  and  fur  the  villages 
Sprinkled  along  the  rushing  tide, 
Batavia  and  Geneva's  street, 
And  Elgin,  now  watchmaker's  pride; 
9 


130  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

And  by  thy  green,  romantic  shore, 

O  swift  Rock  River,  well  I  knew 

The  little  hamlet,  Oregon, 

And  youthful  Dixon,  fair  to  view; 

But  now  they  tell  that  peopled  town 

And  crowded  cities  line  the  shore, 

And  art  and  luxuries  abound 

Where  solitude  had  reign'd  before; 

Yet,  ah!  this  flow  of  busy  life 

Hath  swept  the  shore  and  scour'd  the  plain, 

And  the  wild  game  hath  fled  away 

From  prairie-land  and  harvest-grain. 


LAKE    TAHOE,  COLORADO. 

day  is  done,  the  sunset  fires  grow  pale 
Behind  the  lone  Sierras,  but  the  light  still  glows 
In  pine-clad  promontory,  wooded  cape; 
The  nearest  mountain  peaks  grow  rosy- red, 
And  red  the  far-off  heights  where  snow-drifts  rest 
Rich  tints  of  orange  stain  this  lovely  lake, 
Where  it  lies  still  and  solemn  by  its  shores 
Under  the  shadow  of  its  stately  pines. 

The  sunset  has  pass'd  through  each  state  of  bloom 
Through  every  pomp  and  rioting  of  hue, 
Through  all  the  ecstasy  of  rich  coloring, 
Into  a  dreamy  rest,  till  over  all 
Succeeds  the  deep  solemnity  of  night; 
And  when  the  moon  wheels  up  the  heavenly  dome, 
Silence  prevails,  save  when  the  wild-beast  cries 
Awake  the  slumber  of  the  woods  around. 
•  When  all  these  jewell'd  peaks  grow  wan  and  cold 
The  flickering  blaze  of  the  red  forest-fires 
Glitters  and  flashes  on  the  craggy  rifts 
Where  miners  toil  and  smelting-flames  gleam  out 
Each  granite  slope,  each  chasm  and  ravine, 
Flames  redly  out,  as  if  a  swarthy  smith 
Beat  his  great  anvil  by  the  smithy  forge. 
Grim,  greedful  men  have  come  into  these  hills 


HUNTING   THE   ELK    IN   THE   ISLAND   OF   CEYLON.    131 

To  seek  the  hidden  treasures  of  the  earth, 

To  search  in  sandy  placers  and  in  gulch 

For  gold  inlaid  in  crevices  of  rock, 

Hid  since  creation's  day;  they  sift  the  soil, 

The  precious  yellow  metal  to  secure; 

And  in  the  quarried  shaft  to  find  the  ore. 

And  yet  this  lovely  lake  lies  placid  still 

As  when,  years  since,  the  Indian  pitch'd  his  lodge 

And  the  lone  trapper  roam'd  the  wilderness, 

Ere  came  for  gold  the  mining  multitudes. 

A  fair  land  this,  of  flowery  vale  and  slope, 
With  all  the  ecstasy  of  hue  inlaid; 
Deep  fairy  dells  where  gelid  streamlets  run, 
Far-spreading  plains  where  grassy  pastures  wave, 
Brows'd  by  the  cropping  elk  and  bounding  deer; 
A  land  enrich'd  with  winding  rivers  bright, 
Gemm'd  with  fair  lakes  of  crystal  purity. 
Here  blows  the  fresh  elixir  air  of  life, 
Through  branching  wood  and  forest  recesses; 
Here  bend  the  silvery  birch  and  spiring  fir, 
The  quivering  aspen  and  the  cotton-wood, 
The  regal  pine,  with  yellow  lichens  clasp'd 
Through  which  the  crested  jay  and  pigeons  dart, 
And  the  red  dragon-flies  like  arrows  glance. 
A  solemn  land,  with  mountain-ridges  seam'd; 
With  canons  dim  with  pines  and  cold  with  snows, 
Now  dark  with  shadows,  and  now  bright  with  light, 
Now  kiss'd  by  brook,  now  swept  by  waterfall; 
Where  on  this  earth  such  paradise  of  green, 
And  where  such  grand,  majestic  mountain-range? 


HUNTING  THE  GREAT  ELK  IN  THE  ISLAND  OF 
CEYLON. 

A  N  open  forest  stretches  far  and  wide, 

In  whose  dim  lanes  and  vistas  could  be  seen 
A  verdurous  plain  with  all  its  billowy  slopes; 
While  from  its  utmost  verge  the  blue  hills  rose, 
And  far  in  distance  rang'd  granitic  mounts, 
Seeming  to  float  in  air  above  the  clouds. 


132  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

Here  on  expanses  of  the  table-lands 
The  hunter  mov'd — no  hut  or  human  dwelling  near; 
No  circling  boundaries  save  mountain-tops, 
No  fences  save  the  trunks  of  fallen  trees, 
No  paths  save  those  of- elephant  and  elk; 
And  here  a  river  runs  in  whose  deep  pools 
And  tortuous  course  the  Great  Elk  makes  his  stand; 
Here,  too,  the  hunter,  arm'd  with  spear  and  knife, 
Comes  far  afoot  for  leopard,  elk,  and  boar, — 
Comes  with  his  foxhound  and  his  bloodhound  pack, 
Comes  all  afoot,  for  o'er  these  boggy  plains 
No  horse  may  pass,  to  penetrate  the  swamps, 
The  jungle-thickets,  with  their  tangled  brakes 
Sown  with  lianas  and  the  cactus-thorn. 

Thro'  these  green  glades,  beneath  the  drooping  trees, 
So  like  a  princely  park,  the  wild  game  rove; 
Rove  o'er  wide  downs,  with  densest  jungles  sown, 
Rove  thro'  tall  lemon-grass,  their  favorite  haunts. 
Here  spotted- deer,  the  mouse-deer  and  the  red, 
The  brindled  leopard  and  the  bristly  boar; 
The  snipe,  the  partridge,  and  the  gay  pea-fowl, 
Hold  their  wild  homes,  but  noblest  of  the  game 
The  big  elk  challenges  the  yelping  hound 
And  dares  the  hunter  in  the  desperate  chase. 

The  hunter,  arm'd  with  boar-spear  and  the  knife, 
Goes  forth  at  early  morning  with  his  pack 
To  seek  the  elk;  he  tireless  tramps  o'er  hills, 
Thro'  valleys  and  the  thick-entangled  woods, 
Unleashing  hounds  and  listening  for  their  cries. 
At  last  he  hears  them!    No,  'twas  but  a  bird; 
Again!    No,  'tis, but  a  torrent's  hollow  roar! 
Again!    Yes,  'tis  the  chorus  of  the  hounds 
As  they  surround  a  great  buck  elk  at  bay, — 
At  bay  in  pool  form'd  by  the  river's  flow. 
Now  with  a  plunge  he  charges  at  the  pack, 
And  with  sharp  forefeet  strikes  them  'neath  the  wave; 
They  rising  quick  hear  their  brave  master's  shout, 
Who  springs  into  the  stream  and  cheers  them  on. 
Again,  again,  the  elk-charge!    Ah!  beware, 
Ye  daring  hunters,  gallant  men,  fierce  hounds! 


OCTOBER.  133 

Now  down  the  river  swims  the  dauntless  elk, 

Gallops  o'er  shallows,  swims  the  deepest  pools, 

Dashes  down  rapids,  leaps  obstructing  rocks, 

While  rage  the  hounds  and  roars  the  torrent-tide. 

And  still  the  fearless  hunter  cheers  them  on. 

Again  the  elk  at  bay!  a  noble  sight! 

With  wide-spread  nostrils  and  with  bristling  mane, 

Eyes  all  aflame,  he  long  defies  his  foes; 

At  length  the  hounds  prevail — the  master's  knife 

Descends  amain  and  the  brave  creature  dies. 


OCTOBER. 

TT  is  October,  and  the  glory  of  the  year 

Is  in  the  skies  and  on  the  woods  extended  far  and  near; 
It  glows  in  burnish'd  clouds,  it  flushes  all  the  air; 
It  lies  in  hollow  vales,  in  uplands  brown  and  bare. 

The  tufted  groves  have  lost  their  bright  midsummer  green, 
And  now  a  softer  russet-flush  creeps  o'er  the  woodland  scene; 
O'er  distant  purple  hills  there  floats  a  gauzy  veil, 
A  silver  vapor  hovers  o'er  the  river  in  the  vale. 

The  orchard  trees  all  glisten  with  globes  of  yellow  gold, 
That  bend  the  bough  and  strew  the  earth  with  opulence  untold 
The  ripen 'd  corn-fields  shake  their  pennons  thin  and  white, 
And  to  a  feast,  the  chestnuts,  the  village  school  invite. 

The  gossamer  spider-web  is  strung  from  tree  to  tree, ' 
And  up  the  air  the  thistle-down  floats  like  a  ship  at  sea; 
The  asters  and  the  dahlias  like  flames  in  gardens  glow, 
And  by  the  roadside  wild  flowers  display  a  royal  show. 

Dim  seen,  the  cautious  angler  glides  on  from  brook  to  brook, 
Now  by  the  open  meadow,  now  in  some  bushy  nook. 
And  now  across  the  mill-pond,  with  water-plants  o'ergrown, 
I  sec  his  floating  boat,  and  where  his  lines  are  thrown. 


134  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD    AND   GUN. 

And  o'er  the  salty  marsh  the  gun's  report  I  hear, 
And  see  the  snipe  and  curlews  stop  in  their  swift  career; 
While  o'er  the  open  bays  I  see  the  wild-ducks  wheel, 
The  red-neck  and  the  widgeon,  the  whistler  and  the  teal. 

O  glorious  days  of  autumn !  with  all  your  pomp  of  skies, 
Your  harvests  and  your  fruits,  your  flowers  of  matchless  dyes 
How  dear  to  manly'sportsman  your  ripe,  imperial  time, 
Your  sports  by  "stream  and  forest,"  in  Nature's  royal  prime 


RIFLE-PRACTICE. 

TT  is  a  thousand  yards  away ! 

Sight  well  your  piece,  as  if  there  lay 
In  ambush  close  a  sharpshooter 
Lurking  beneath  a  forest  fir; 
A  picket-guard,  a  scout,  a  spy, 
With  levell'd  tube  and  practised  eye, 
With  steady  nerve  and  vision  true, 
Intent  to  send  a  ball  at  you. 

Shoot  quick,  yet  careful  be  your  aim, 
Your  target  is  no  forest  game ; 
But  a  tried  soldier,  train'd  to  war, 
And  skill'd  to  slay  his  foe  afar. 
See!  in  the  shimmering  sunbeam 
An  evanescent  rifle  gleam! 
Be  sure  its  sudden  flame  will  leap, 
Be  sure  its  whistling  ball  will  sweep; 
Then  shoot,  but  with  deliberate  art, 
Or  soon  the  death  may  reach  your  heart. 

Sight  well  your  piece,  as  if  there  lay 
A  deer  five  hundred  yards  away, — 
A  noble  stag  with  antler  crown'd, 
Scornful  of  steed  or  yelping  hound, 
For  oft  his  hoofs  have  led  the  chase 
Triumphant  in  the  headlong  race. 
Steadfast  and  stately  see  him  stand, 
With  head  erect,  in  stature  grand, 


RIFLE-PRACTICE.  135 

Pawing  the  turf  in  angry  rage, 

Tossing  his  horn,  a,  battle  g;igr! 

Threatening  your  body  to  impale 

If  nerve  should  shake  or  ball  should  fail; 

Imagine  that  your  target-aim 

Is  levell'd  at  such  mighty  game. 

Sight  well  your  piece,  as  if  a  bear, 
Growling  and  grim,  were  in  his  lair 
His  eyeballs  glaring  on  his  prey 
And  you  but  twenty  yards  away; 
See  the  great,  crooked  iron  claw, 
The  churning  foam  of  grizzly  jaw! 
See  how  the  eyes  Hash  lurid  llamc. 
Imagine  then  such  monster  game 
Confronts  you;  and  if  tremors  shake 
Your  nerves,  remember  life's  at  stake. 

Sight  well  your  piece,  as  if  a  plain, 
A  prairie,  stretch'd  its  vast  domain, 
Where  far  and  wide  as  eye  may  glance 
Rolls  out  a  limitless  expanse. 
No  friendly  woods  their  glooms  extend 
To  the  horizon's  azure  end; 
Naught  but  the  billowy  slopes  display 
Their  grassy  hillocks  round  the  way; 
No  yawning  chasm  or  gulch  to  yield 
A  refuge  in  that  dreary  field; 
While  there,  in  fancy,  you  behold 
A  tawny  bison,  grim  and  old, 
With  savage  eye  and  lashing  tail 
That  beats  his  flanks  as  with  a  flail, 
Raging  to  toss  with  horn  in  air 
The  foe  that  would  his  fury  dare. 
Ah!  steady  then  be  hand  and  aim; 
For  death  or  life  you  stake  the  game! 

Hold  firm  your  piece!    In  fancy  stand 
Far  off  in  Asiatic  land, 
In  tangles  of  pineapple  rove, 
Palmetto  jungle,  bamboo  grove, 
Where  wave  the  frills  of  pallid  fern 
And  orchids  with  gay  colors  burn, 


136  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Where  cocoanuts  their  crowns  upthrow, 
Areca-palms  their  fronds  of  snow, 
And  there  in  that  weird  forest  hall, 
Confront  the  tiger  of  Bengal, — 
The  royal  tiger,  strip'd  and  grim, 
With  blazing  eye  and  crouching  limb. 
Then  quick  the  aim  and  sure  the  shot, 
Or  you  shall  perish  on  the  spot ! 


WHEN  THIS  OLD   GUN  WAS  NEW. 


this  old  gun  was  new 
Twas  in  life's  youthful  time, 
When  flowing  locks  were  golden-brown 

That  now  are  white  with  time. 
When  skies  were  bright  and  meadows  green, 

Days  all  too  short  for  play, 
And  precious  was  each  moment 
Of  the  weekly  holiday  ! 

Ah,  then  when  first  the  flush  of  dawn 

Lit  up  the  eastern  sky, 
How  joyous  from  the  garden  gate 

Out  to  the  fields  to  fly! 
Sometime  with  little  slender  rod 

With  line  of  silken  strand, 
We'd  seek  the  winding  river's  marge, 

A  gay,  exultant  band. 

Sometime  we'd  seek  the  old  mill-pond, 

Down  where  the  trees  leaned  o'er, 
Where  water-lilies  were  afloat, 

And  cat-tails  lin'd  the  shore, 
To  cast  for  chub,  or  perch,  or  trout, 

Or  pike,  or  yellow  bream, 
And  fill  our  wicker  baskets 

With  treasures  of  the  stream. 


FALCONRY.  137 


But  greater  yet  the  joy  to  lift 

This  old  gun  from  the  wall 
And  pass  forth  where  the  piny  woods 

Rose  shadowy  and  tall. 
For  there  the  blue  wood-pigeons  flew, 

There  on  wild  berries  fed, 
And  when  this  little  gun  outspoke 

How  many  were  the  dead ! 

'Twas  but  a  simple  flint-lock  thing, 

Long  ere  the  cap  and  cone, 
But  still  its  powers  seem'd  marvellous, 

And  the  gun  was  all  our  own. 
How  precious  seem'd  our  powder  store, 

Precious  as  sands  of  gold, 
Our  shot-bag  was  a  treasury 

Of  leaden  wealth  untold! 

Since  then  full  many  years  have  sped, 

We've  hunted  far  and  near, 
But  never  was  such  sporting  joy 

As  in  that  earliest  year. 
A  costlier  weapon  we  have  swung, 

The  smart  breechloader  borne, 
But  none  so  dear-belov'd  as  this, 

The  child  gun,  bruis'd  and  worn! 


FALCONRY.     (Falco.) 

~C>ED  banners  stream  out  from  castle- wall, 

The  cavaliers  gather  in  lordly  hall; 
They  are  gay  with  plumes  and  apparel  bright, 
With  gilded  baldrick,  and  doublet  white, 
Ever  ready  for  tourney  or  border  fray, 
For  falcon  flight  or  stag  at  bay. 
'Twas  a  grand  old  hall  where  pennoncellcs  wave 
From  oaken  ceiling  and  crypt  and  nave; 
Where  ancient  statues  with  lance  and  brand 
In  armor  complete  in  niches  stand. 


138  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 

Tripping  lightly  down  from  each  spacious  stair 
Come  matrons  graceful  and  maidens  fair, 
Fair  damsels — a  rosy  and  sparkling  band, 
With  gauntlet  and  jewell'd  whip  in  hand, 
In  flowing  riding-robes  array 'd 
To  fly  the  falcon  in  forest  glade. 

Sirloin  and  venison-haunch  on  the  board 
Are  deftly  carv'd  and  the  red  wine  pour'd; 
Beakers  of  claret,  flagons  of  beer, 
Are  quaff  d  in  response  to  toast  and  cheer. 
Then  forth  down  the  granite  steps  they  pass 
To  the  court-yard  esplanade  of  grass. 
Ostler  and  groom  from  manger  and  stall 
Lead  forth  the  thoroughbred  charges  tall. 
The  cavaliers  quick  to  their  saddles  spring, 
With  jingle  of  spur  and  bridle-ring; 
Fair  maidens  are  rais'd  with  knightly  care 
To  their  palfreys,  equipt  in  housings  rare. 
Then  the  rough  gamekeeper  and  dainty  page 
Bring  forth  the  falcons  from  perch  and  cage, 
The  stroug-wing'd  merlins  to  sweep  the  wood, 
Equipt  with  jesses  and  bell  and  hood. 
Then  forth  down  the  bowery  vale  they  ride 
To  marshy  mere,  to  river-side, 
For  there,  amid  sedges  and  tufted  reed, 
The  long-limb'd  herons  secluded  feed. 

The  buzzard,  the  goshawk,  and  the  kite 
Are  but  mean  assassins  in  their  flight; 
But  the  shapely  falcon  of  noble  fame 
Is  the  royal  hunter  of  forest  game. 
On,  on  they  ride;  resound  horn  and  hound, 
While  beaters  explore  the  coverts  round; 
The  falcons  from  hood  and  jesses  are  freed, 
When  partridge  and  quail  spring  up  at  speed ; 
But  loud  resound  cheerings  when  herons  rise 
From  oozy  marsh  to  ascend  the  skies. 

With  frighten'd  cry  he  expands  his  wings, 
With  outstretch'd  neck  from  his  ambush  springs,— 
Springs  upward  in  soaring  and  steady  flight 
Until  lost  in  the  skies  to  human  sight. 


MY    DOGS   SANCHO   AND   NEPTUNE.  139 

But  frantic  and  cruel  the  falcon  still 

Pursues  the  fugitive,  eager  to  kill. 

He  follows  the  prey,  he  soars  on  high, 

Like  an  arrow  he  cleaves  the  upper  sky, 

Then  swings  with  a  downward  swoop  on  his  prey, 

And  the  heron  falls  dead  in  the  forest  way. 


MY  DOGS  SANCHO  AND  NEPTUNE. 

"V^OU  know,  my  dear  Sancho,  the  shooting  is  o'er, 

That  the  gun  o'er  the  meadows  may  thunder  no  more; 
You  know  with  regret  the  "  close  season"  is  here 
And  the  end  of  the  fun  is  the  end  of  the  year. 
That  iu  hedge-row  and  wheat-field,  in  stubble  and  weed, 
The  coveys  of  quail  unmolested  may  feed ; 
That  in  intricate  swamps,  where  rivulets  run, 
The  woodcock  have  vanish'd  and  silent  the  gun ; 
That  far  in  the  forest's  sequester'd  retreat 
The  wings  of  the  partridge  securely  may  beat. 
So,  farewell  to  the  sports  of  woodland  and  field, 
The  last  shot  is  fir'd,  the  last  volley  peal'd. 

Old  Neptune!  brave  child  of  bleak  Newfoundland! 
Your  joys  are  all  over  at  bayside  and  strand. 
The  snipe  have  all  fled  from  meadow  and  marsh, 
Where  the  honk  of  the  geese  rose  discordantly  harsh ; 
The  brant  and  the  duck  in  phalanx  no  more 
Stretch  across  the  broad  bay  or  enliven  the  shore, 
Nor  entice  your  old  master,  with  boat  and  decoy, 
To  follow  the  sport  with  passionate  joy, 
While  you  with  a  dash  and  a  splash  and  a  swim 
Would  plunge  for  the  fowl  and  bear  them  to  him. 

I  sit  by  my  fireside's  flickering  blaze 
And  muse  o'er  the  past  with  its  glorious  days; 
I  think  of  the  morns  of  October  so  bright, 
When  flush'd  the  gray  skies  with  the  bloom  of  the  light, 
When  all  the  gay  woods  are  color'd  with  dyes, 
All  the  foliage  illum'd  with  the  glow  of  the  skies; 
When  joyous,  light-hearted,  I'd  pass  from  the  gate 
To  range  o'er  the  billowy  uplands  elate, 


140  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

To  plunge  in  the  woodland's  dim,  glimmering  shade, 
Where  the  whir  of  the  partridge  was  heard  in  the  glade, 
Or  pass  thro'  the  dry  stubble-fields  of  the  grain, 
Where  the  shocks  of  the  wheat  so  lately  had  lain; 
Where  the  quail  were  at  feed,  or  hid  in  the  hedge 
In  tussocks  of  weed  or  hillocks  of  sedge, 
While  Sancho  crept  on  with  eyes  all  aflame, 
Alert  for  the  faintest  first  scent  of  the  game. 
And  now  by  my  hearth,  in  sluggish  repose, 
Half-watching  the  flame  o'er  the  ember  that  glows 
Lie  Neptune  and  Sancho,  both  idly  at  rest, 
In  comfort  luxurious,  so  perfectly  blest! 
Half-awake,  half-asleep,  they  blink  as  the  blaze 
In  their  slumberous  sense  so  fitfully  plays; 
And  methiuks,  as  I  gaze  in  their  eyes,  I  can  trace 
The  thoughts  and  the  musings  that  wrinkle  their  face. 
They  are  thinking,  mayhap,  of  their  triumphs  again, 
Of  the  autumn  foray,  or  the  summer  campaign — 
Of  the  coveys  they  rous'd,  of  the  flocks  they  pursued 
By  the  hedge,  in  the  field,  or  at  edge  of  the  wood; 
And  I  know  that  when  drowsy  with  sleep  ye  recline, 
What  exquisite  dreamings  and  visions  are  thine; 
For  you  whine  and  you  yelp,  and  your  paws  seem  to  move 
As  if  in  pursuit  of  the  game  of  the  grove. 


THE  OPEN  SEASON  FOR  QUAIL-SHOOTING. 

TT  is  October  morning,  the  golden,  glorious  prime 

Of  the  autumnal  season,  the  sportsman's  royal  time; 
And  now  the  hoar-frost  jewels,  all  glittering  and  white, 
Shine  o'er  the  grassy  meadows  and  o'er  the  upland  height; 
And  far  as  eye  may  wander  a  filmy  vapory  veil 
Floats  o'er  the  brimming  river  that  windeth  down  the  vale. 

I  gaze  o'er  woods  and  orchards,  resplendent  with  the  hues 
With  which  the  lavish  autumn  the  drooping  leaves  suffuse, 
Where  ivies  and  the  woodbines  and  garlands  of  the  vine 
Are  redden'd  and  embrown'd,  with  vermilion  splendors  shine. 


HUNTER'S  SONG.  141 

And  where  the  oaten  harvests  and  fields  of  wheat  were  spread, 
All  bare  the  russet  stubble  is  crisp  beneath  the  tread, 
And  yellow  corn-stacks  like  the  tents  of  armies  spread  around, 
While  in  the  busy  granaries  the  beating  flails  resound. 

Now  by  the  blue-lake  borders,  and  by  the  river's  edge, 
Where  swing  the  cut-tail  clusters,  where  leans  the  rustling  sedge, 
I  see  the  black-duck  squadrons,  the  wood-duck  and  the  teal; 
I  sec  the  ambush 'd  fowler,  I  hear  his  volleying  peal. 

And  as  I  skirt  the  thicket  edge,  or  through  the  stubble  pass, 
I  see  the  bevies  of  the  quail  spring  from  the  faded  grass; 
In  every  weedy  tussock,  in  every  swale,  they  hide; 
And  as  they  sail  o'er  hedges,  in  winnowings  far  and  wide, 
The  sportsman's  heart  exulteth  with  promise  of  the  joy 
When  first  the  "  open  season"  his  gun  and  dog  employ. 

For  not  until  November  its  earliest  dawn  shall  bring 
May  shot  be  fir'd  in  coppices  where  quail  burst  on  the  wing; 
For  then  from  morn  tiil  evening  the  echoes  shall  repeat 
The  gun's  report  in  open  field  or  in  the  green  retreat. 

Till  then  the  speckled  flocks  may  feed  and  fly  at  will, 

May  range  the  sumptuous  stubbles,  may  sweep  o'er  plain  and 

hill; 

When  comes  that  day  relentless,  ah  then,  poor  flocks,  beware! 
Swift  be  your  flight  or  ye  may  leave  your  "  little  lives  in  air." 


HUNTER'S   SONG. 
Air— "The  Bright,  Rosy  Morning,"  etc. 

rPHE  red  of  the  dawn  o'er  the  sky  pours  its  flood, 

It  brightens  the  upland,  it  flushes  the  wood; 
The  hound  and  the  bugle  to  the  chase  call  away, — 
While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm  the  day! 
Let  us  quaff  the  rich  wine  of  life  while  we  may! 

Chorus— While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm 
the  day! 


142  POEMS   OF  THE   BOD   AND   GUN. 

From  hut  on  the  mountain,  from  hall  in  the  plain, 
Come,  urge  the  fleet  courser  with  lash  and  with  rein; 
The  herds  of  wild  deer  through  the  woods  speed  away, — 
While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm  the  day! 
Let  us  quaff  the  red  wine  of  life  while  we  may! 

Chorus — While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm 
the  day ! 


Far,  fast  o'er  the  wilds,  in  the  madness  of  fear, 
Flies  the  wolf,  flies  the  bear,  in  their  frenzied  career, 
And  swift  as  the  lightning  flies  the  hoof  of  the  deer. 
While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm  the  day ! 
Let  us  quaff  the  bright  wine  of  life  while  we  may! 

Chorus — While  love  cheers  the  night,  boys,  let  sports  charm 
the  day! 


EL   CONQUISTADOR. 

"Half-way  down,  while  picking  our  way  through  an  old 
windfall,  Ignotus  kicked  something  which  rattled.  Stooping 
to  see  what  it  was,  he  picked  up  a  jagged,  rusty  knife  and  a 
bleached  human  skull.  Nothing  else  could  we  find  though  we 
searched  carefully.  Of  what  tragedy  these  were  the  sole  me 
mentoes  we  could  only  conjecture.  Was  it  red  man  or  white, 
hunter,  warrior,  miner,  or  prospector,  who  had  perished  miser 
ably  in  this  gloomy  thicket?  What  was  the  manner  of  his 
taking  off — by  wasting  disease,  by  famine,  by  ravening  wild 
beast,  or  by  his  brother  man?  Was  it,  indeed,  a  man's  skull  at 
all,  and  not,  perhaps,  a  woman's?" — Forest  and  Stream,  May  19. 


hunters  toiling  up  a  cliff 
Of  the  blue  Colorado  range, 
Paus'd  for  a  moment  to  survey 

The  landscape,  wild  and  strange; 
Far  off,  a  chain  of  mountains  dim 

Along  the  horizon  crept, 
While  groves  and  valleys  soft  below 
In  tranquil  beauty  slept. 


EL  CONQUISTADOR.  143 

Near  by  El  Conquistador  rose, 

Its  steep  sides  dark  with  tufted  woods, 
Its  peaks  wind-swept  and  lightning -scarr'd, 

All  seam'd  and  rent  with  torrent  floods. 
And  here  a  little  mountain  vale 

Its  natural  garden  fair  outspread; 
Fair  with  its  grass,  its  trees,  its  bloom, 

And  the  bright,  blue  heavens  o'erhead. 

And  here  the  careless  foot  uptum'd 

A  skull,  a  jagged,  rusty  knife. 
Were  these  the  sole  memorials 

Of  some  foul,  murtherous  strife — 
Sole  relics  of  a  tragedy 

That  stain'd  these  grasses  green; 
These  mouldering  bones  that  here  have  lain 

For  years,  unknown,  unseen? 
Was  it  the  red  man  or  the  white, 

Hunter  or  miner,  Indian  brave, 
That  perish'd  in  this  lonely  spot, 

Dead,  and  denied  a  grave? 

Or,  haply,  'twas  some  tender  maid, 

Some  Indian  squaw,  some  emigrant, 
Sailing  across  Atlantic  seas, 

To  die  in  this  sequester'd  haunt. 
But  who  this  mystery  may  solve, 

The  story  of  these  bones  unfold! 
Ah,  never!  till  the  last  Great  Day, 

When  all  earth's  secrets  shall  be  told. 

Ah,  many  who  seek  this  Western  clime 

Were  outlaw'd  men  from  foreign  shore; 
Men  steep'd  to  the  very  lips  in  crime, 

With  heart  of  iron  and  hand  of  gore. 
They  blast  the  rock,  they  dig  the  mine, 

They  sift  the  sands  where  nuggets  shine, 
And  ever  in  savage  midnight  fray 

Are  prompt  with  the  bloody  blade  to  slay. 


144  POEMS   OF  THE    EOD   AND   GUN. 


NAW-KAW,    A   CHIEF    OF   THE    WINNEBAGO  TRIBE 
OF   INDIANS. 

Q  NAW-KAW!  on  my  wall  thy  portrait  stands; 

And  as  upon  thy  stalwart  form  I  gaze, 
Upon  thy  brawny  arms  and  nervous  hands, 

I  seem  to  wander  back  to  other  days, 
When  thou,  a  hunter  bold,  dicls't  roam  the  plains; 

Forth  on  thy  frantic  horse  would  headlong  ride, 
To  chase  the  flying  buffalo  amain, 

Or,  warrior  fierce,  woulds't  lead  in  savage  pride, 
Thy  merciless  tribe,  triumphant  o'er  the  slain. 

Above  thy  head  a  dusky  plume  is  plac'd, 

Thy  left  hand  holds  a  big-horn's  snowy  fleece, 
Thy  right  hand  with  a  feather'd  pipe  is  grac'd, 

A  pipe  of  war  or  calumet  of  peace. 
A  red-deer  robe  is  o'er  thy  shoulder  thrown, 

And  glittering  medals  shine  upon  thy  breast; 
But  knife  or  hatchet,  or  the  club  of  bone, 

Thou  bearest  not,  nor  war-sign  eagle  crest, 
For  haply  in  thy  garb  of  peace  thou  now  art  drest. 

Years  since  this  painting  came  from  artist's  hand 

That  now  conspicuous  adorns  my  room. 
Great  chief!  since  then  have  vanish'd  from  the  land 

Full  many  of  thy  tribesmen  to  their  doom! 
This  new  year,  Eighty-six,  beholds  thy  game 

Thinn'd  out  o'er  valley  and  o'er  mountain-chain; 
The  steam-horse  came  with  all  its  iron  train, 

The  greedy  emigrants  and  miners  came, 
And  soon  the  game  and  tribesmen  melted  from  the  plain ! 

O'er  the  broad  land  the  Indian's  reign  is  o'er, 

His  gay  crown  trampled  in  the  very  dust; 
Nor  more  is  seen  the  flashing  of  his  oar, 

The  battle-spear  is  tarnish'd  with  the  rust; 
No  more  his  wigwam  sends  its  curling  smoke, 

But  his  proud  neck  hath  worn  the  servile  yoke; 
Tribe  after  tribe  have  vanish'd  and  have  died, 

And  dull  oblivion  o'er  them  waves  its  pinions  wide! 


Tin:   4LBATROB8    LWD    I'LM.riN.  145 

• 

THE   ALBATItOSS  AND    PENGUIN. 

(Dionitiliii  c.rnl, ms.) 

I/ A  It  off  in  southern  seas  by  myriads  throng 

Those  feather'd  tyrants  of  the  surging  tide, 
Following  the  fish-shoals  in  their  devious  way, 
Following  the  smaller  wild  fowl  o'er  the  deep. 

Far  ofT  Magellan's  stormy  strait  they  swarm, 
Far  oil  the  rocky  rampart  of  Cape  Horn 
They  hovering  seek  their  prey,  and  build  their  nests 
Along  the  rugged  precipice  of  isles. 
Then  it  is  well  in  contemplative  mood 
To  take  a  stand  upon  some  jutting  cliff 
And  view  the  rugged  eyrie  where  they  build, 
Amid  the  granite  cavities  of  rocks. 
There  they  may  rest,  secure  from  harm  of  man, 
With  the  broad  seas  around  to  yield  them  food. 

Beneath  them  beats  the  all-surrounding  main, 
Beyond  spreads  out  old  ocean's  free  domain ; 
Above,  the  skies  cerulean  spread  a  dome. 
To  pace  the  shore  when  the  salt  tides  are  out, 
To  view  the  color'd  shells  that  pave  the  beach, 
Or  glean  the  dulse  and  sea  kelp  of  the  rocks; 
To  sit  on  rocks  when  Hows  the  rising  tide, 
Attentive  to  all  sounds  that  fill  the  air; 
To  view  the  snowy  flocks  as  high  they  rise, — 
All  this  exalts  the  mind  to  happiest  mood. 

The  giant  albatross  of  southern  seas, 
The  cruel  king  of  all  aquatic  tribes, 
Hovers  aloft  or  plunges  in  the  deep, 
Eager  to  tear  with  beak  and  crooked  claw, 
The  shining  fish  that  skim  the  surface  wave, 
Or  seize  the  lesser  sea-fowl  on  the  uiug. 

Afar  from  human  haunt,  remote  from  land, 
They  float,  they  drift  in  worlds  of  upper  air, 
Seeming  lo  slumber  without  Hap  of  wing, 
And  dropping  seldom  to  the  lonely  shore, 
Save  when  they  come  to  breed  and  build  their  nots. 
10 


146  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

They  roam,  they  rob,  they  never  feel  fatigue, — 
By  night,  by  day,  forever  on  the  wing, 
Forever  prowling,  ever  at  their  feasts. 

One  only  friend  have  they  of  all  the  tribe— 
The  clumsy  penguin;  they  together  seek 
Some  desolate  bleak  island  of  the  sea, 
And  there  construct  their  nest  and  rear  their  young. 
The  pelican,  the  cormorant  and  gull, 
And  solan  goose,  avoid  the  dangerous  spot, 
Where,  like  a  vast  encampment  in  set  lines, 
Like  tented  field,  these  armies  of  great  birds, 
The  albatross  and  penguin,  have  their  home. 
Yet  now  those  lonely  haunts  that  once  they  sought, 
Unknown  to  humankind  for  countless  years, 
Are  quite  forsaken,  and  more  desert  shores 
They  seek,  secure  from  human  harm. 


ENGLISH   SKYLARK  IN  AUSTRALIA. 

(Alauda 


"  The  light-feathered  minstrel  began,  as  it  were,  to  tune  its  pipes. 
The  savage-looking  miners  gathered  round  the  cage  that  mo 
ment  to  listen.  Then  the  same  sun  that  had  warmed  its  little  heart 
at  home  came  glowing  down  on  him  here,  and  he  gave  music  back 
for  it  more  and  more,  till  at  last,  amid  breathless  silence  and  glis 
tening  eyes  of  the  rough  diggers  hanging  on  his  voice,  out 
burst  in  that  distant  laud  his  English  song." 

TN  the  Australian  land,  hard  by  the  farmer's  door, 

Spread  idly  on  the  grass  were  miners  half  a  score: 
In  the  acacia's  shadow,  perch'd  in  its  gilded  cage, 
A  small  brown  English  lark  their  earnest  thoughts  engage. 

Tiiey  were  a  rough  and  rugged  crew,  of  almost  savage  mien, 
Of  swarthy  cheek  and  bearded  lip,  as  e'er  on  earth  were  seen  ; 
Their  bare  and  brawny  arms  were  scorch'd  by  foreign  sun, 
As  if  in  blazing  smith-forge  their  daily  toils  were  done. 

They  were  exiled  convicts,  and  doom'd  to  felon  toil, 
Banish'dfrom  merry  England,  their  fathers'  native  soil; 
In  gulch  and  stony  gully  they'd  found  the  wondrous  gold, 
Had   fought  with  nature  till  they  tore  the  treasures  from  her 
hold. 


KM.l.ISll    SKYLARK    IN    Al'STIIAUA.  147 

The  little  feather'd  minstrel  began  to  tune  his  throat; 
The  surly  diggers  gathi-r'd  rouud — they  would  not  lose  a  note: 
At  first  a  faint  chirp;  but  ere  long,  as  ancient  memories  came, 
The  cadences  of  other  years  burst  from  its  little  frame. 

The  same  sun  that  had  warm'd  at  home  the  bird's  melodious 

strain 

Came  glowing  on  his  heart  to  thaw  the  frozen  fount  again: 
With  breathless  lip,  with  glistening  eye,  press 'd  round  that  eager 

throng, 
To  hear  in  this  remotest  land  the  old  familiar  song. 

Ii  swellM  his  little  throat,  it  gush'd  from  him  amain; 
And  every  time  the  minstrel  check'd  the  song's  enchanting  strain, 
Of  its  fair  theme  to  think— the  meadow  and  the  stream, 
The  clover  blooms,  the  daisies,  the  springtime's  golden  beam, — 
Oh!  oft  from  many  a  bosom  rough,  and  many  a  wicked  heart, 
A  soft  sigh  told  how  fervently  they  listen'd  to  his  art. 

Il(   -:m«r  again;  again  he  sang  with  all  his  tuneful  soul, 
Of  the  gentle  summer  showers,  of  the  clouds  in  heaven  that  roll: 
From  adamantine  bosoms  then  sprang  the  kindly  tear,' 
That  fell  on  rough  embrowned  cheeks  in  drops  like  crystal  clear. 

These  men  so  full  of  oaths  and  ire,  cupidity  and  crime, 
Had  been  white-headed  boys  in  vanish'd  childhood's  time; 
Long  they  had  stroll'd  the  dewy  fields,  had  stemm'd  the  river's  tide, 
With  brothers  and  with  sisters  rejoicing  at  their  side; 
There  they  had  seen  the  skylark  rise  and  soar  aloft  in  air, 
Singing  the  self-same  mellow  song  that  was  vibrating  there. 

Their  little  playmates  in  the  sod  had  slept  this  many  a  day, 
While  they  had  grown  to  stalwart  men,  remorseless,  prompt  to 

slay ; 

And  yet  no  liquid  note  is  chang'd  of  this  immortal  strain; 
While  hearing  it,  long  years  of  vice  from  minds  withdraw  their 

stain — 

The  past  with  all  its  early  scenes,  smiles  in  the  song-shine  clear — 
The  faded  lights,  the  fleeting  joys,  come  back  from  each  lost  year. 

As  the  little  feather'd  minstrel  still  bubbled  in  its  flow, 
Each  one  recall'd  the  cottage,  the  aged  mother's  woe, 
The  clover  and  the  curfew,  the  playmates  that  ne'er  grew 
To  be  like  them  so  wicked,  but  died  when  life  was  new; 
And  their  souls  were  touch'd  and  softcu'd,  as  if  with  Heaven's 
own  dew! 


148  POEMS   OF   THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 


SPARE   THE    SWALLOWS,     (llirundo  urbica.) 

"  The  milliners  now  demand  the  breasts  and  wings  of  swallows 
for  decorating  ladies'  hats.  To  supply  the  call  thousands  of 
these  birds  are  killed  by  agents  of  the  millinery  taxidermists. 
The  birds  that  nest  under  the  eaves  or  fly  in  at  the  diamond- 
shaped  swallow-hole  ought  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  new 
whim  of  woman.  Spare  the  swallows." — Forest  and  Stream, 
Supt.  13. 

O  PARE  these  little  children  of  the  happy  air, 

The  blue-wing'd,  sharp-beak'd,  harmless  swallows  spare! 
When  the  pink  petals  of  the  peach  unfold, 
When  the  shy  violets  blossom  in  the  mould, 
When  buttercups  display  their  urns  of  gold, 
And  birds  enchant  the  air  with  songs  of  spring, 
And  vines  in  woods  their  verdant  garlands  fling, — 
Then  hearts  and  homes  are  throbbing  with  delight 
As  the  spring  swallows  gather  in  their  flight, 
Rehearsing  their  sweet  carols  as  they  fly ; 
Now  sweeping  low,  anon  careering  high, 
Swift  as  a  pointed  arrow  from  the  bow, 
At  every  rosy  dawn,  at  sunset's  glow. 

Around  the  old  barii  gables,  moss'd  and  gray, 
They  circle  swift  in  wild,  ecstatic  play; 
The  insect  pests  that  hover  in  the  breeze, 
Whose  larvae  taint  the  grain,  the  budding  trees, 
These  nimble  guardians  of  the  air  assail, 
And  save  the  ripening  harvests  of  the  vale. 

Where  sweeps  th'  unruffled  lake  its  sheet  of  bluev 
The  restless  swallows  their  forays  pursue, 
They  skim  its  azure  plain,  they  skirt  the  pool, 
They  dip  the  wing,  the  beak  in  eddies  cool; 
Nor  leave  the  keen  pursuit  of  insect  prey 
Till  fades  the  glimmering  twilight  of  the  day. 

And  where  the  river-borders,  slant  and  steep, 
O'erhang  the  currents  flowing  dim  and  deep, 
The  blithe  bank-swallows  build  their  airy  home, 
The  crumbling  sands  their  storehouse  and  their  dome.     ) 


TIIK    \VIII  IM'OORWII.I..  1  !'.» 

Anil  lie ro  in  myriads  from  each  hermit  cave 
They  dart  forth  into  space,  they  skim  the  wave. 
Hut  when  the  autumn  glory  of  the  woods 
Fades  in  its  pomp  thro' all  the  solitudes, 
Then  like  a  whirling  cloud  they  take  their  flight 
F<»r  brighter  climes,  and  vanish  from  the  sight. 

Ah,  pity  'tis  these  plenteous  wing'd  guests, 
That  please  our  hearts  and  rid  life  of  its  pests, 
That  charm  the  blithesome  air  with  chirpings  sweet, 
And  fill  with  merry  sound  each  cnlm  retreat, 
Should  die  that  Youth  should  win  another  grace 
To  nod  above  the  witchery  of  her  face! 
Ah  !  she  fornets  that  to  enhance  her  bloom, 
A  sweet  bird  dies  to  yield  its  purple  plume. 

THE   WIIIPPOOllWILL.     (Caprimulffus  vociferus.) 

"If  there  is  one  bird  we  love  above  all  others,  it  is  the  whip 
poorwill.  Even  in  our  boyhood  we  loved  this  bird  with  all  our 
heart;  and  in  these  latter  days,  when  we  seldom  or  never  hear 
its  voice,  our  affection  seems  to  be  more  intense  than  ever,  ami 
for  the  strange  reason  that  it  recalls  long-departed  joys." — 
CHARLES  LANMAN. 

"VV/"HEN  the  glory  of  sunset  fades  in  the  skies 

As  the  shadows  of  evening  descend  o'er  the  hill, 
And  vnpors  from  forest  and  valley  arise, 
Then  murmur  thy  notes,  O  sweet  whippoorwill ! 

I  hear  in  the  thicket  the  rustle  of  wings, 
In  the  dusk  of  the  foliage  discover  thy  shape, 

Scarce  seen  where  the  ivy  its  canopy  flings, 
Scarce  seen  where  the  grape-vines  the  trellises  drape. 

All  hush'd  is  the  air,  for  the  robin  hath  peal'd 
His  last  mellow  note  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

And  the  meadow-lark's  song  is  silent  o'er  field, 
And  silent  the  blackbird's  melodious  lay. 

As  I  roam  the  broad  uplands  with  setter  and  gun, 
Intent  on  the  quail  as  they  spring  from  the  ground, 

I  note  not  the  shadows  at  set  of  the  sun 
Till  the  gush  of  thy  minstrelsy  warbles  around. 


150  POEMS   03?   THE   ROD    AND   GUN. 

When  I  float  in  my  boat  o'er  the  lakelet  serene, 
Intent  on  the  splash  of  the  trout  and  the  bass, 

I  note  not  how  evening  hath  darken'd  the  scene 
Till  faint  thro'  the  dusk  thy  symphonies 


Sweet,  gentle,  and  low,  thy  charming  refrain 

Is  heard  in  all  places  from  prairie  to  sea, 
'Mid  the  South  orange-groves  and  the  pine  woods  of  Maine, 

From  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  to  far  Tennessee. 

How  dear  to  the  heart  thy  tender  cadence! 

When  heard  in  the  peach  tree  that  shadows  our  door, 
When  perch'd  on  the  rail  or  the  brown  garden  fence, 

Thy  tremulous  anthems  at  intervals  pour. 

O  sweet  evening  bird,  we  welcome  thy  call, 
That  fills  every  heart  with  emotions  of  joy, 

Reminds  of  our  home  in  hamlet  or  hall, 

Reminds  us  of  childhood  and  bliss  of  the  boy! 


THE   KINGFISHER.     (Alceclo  Ispida.} 


the  river  winds  through  its  green  retreat, 
Smiling,  rejoicing  on  its  way, 
Whose  ripples  and  rifles  ever  beat 

The  old  tree-roots  and  boulders  gray; 
Where  o'er  the  sedges'  shallows  and  sands, 

The  cat-tail  tufts  and  river  reeds, 
At  whose  edge  the  patient  angler  stands, 

The  kingfisher  flies  and  feeds. 
Perch'd  on  a  bending,  wither'd  spray 

That  leans  o'er  the  water's  flow, 
He  watches  intently  for  the  prey 

That  swims  in  the  stream  below. 

Patiently,  motionless,  long  he  sits, 

Like  sentry  on  the  castle  height; 
Unharm'd  the  insect  by  him  flits, 

The  bee  and  the  butterfly  bright, 


TIM:   EINQFI8HBB.  151 


For  his  dainty  food  is  the  finny  race, 
The  minnows  below  that  swim, 

The  silver  shiners,  the  roach  and  dace, 
The  trout  o'er  the  surface  that  skim. 

Lovely  and  spangled  with  all  the  dyes 
That  melt  in  the  sunset  skies. 
Wings  bright  as  the  peacock's  plumes, 
Or  hummingbird's  mottled  blooms, 
With  long  bill  like  that  of  water-crane, 
And  crown  of  dusky  greenish  stain, 
No  lovelier  robber  infests  the  streams, 
Where  water  runs  or  fish  school  gleams. 
Where'er  sea-beaches  far  expand, 
By  shingle-banks  and  stretch  of  sand; 
Where'er  o'erleaning  woodlands  shade 
The  clear  brook  twinkling  thro'  the  glade, 
O  bird  rapacious!  is  thy  haunt, 
On  trees  that  o'er  the  currents  slant. 

Pois'd  in  mid  air  like  osprey  white 
That  o'er  sea  borders  takes  its  flight, 
It  balances  its  spotted  wings, 
Then  downward  like  an  arrow  springs, 
Impaling  with  its  pointed  bill 
The  shiny  fish  of  pond  and  rill. 
The  silent  angler,  as  he  glides 
Along  the  river's  rushing  tides, 
Hears  oft  thy  sharp,  discordant  cry, 
As  your  gay  pinions  flutter  by; 
But  ne'er  molests  thy  sudden  dash, 
Thy  downward  plunge,  like  sunbeam  flash. 
Hut  the  boy  gunner's  cruel  e\ 
Mark  thy  bright  plumage  for  his  pri/.o, 
In  ambush  takes  his  deadly  aim, 
And  slays  thee,  his  resplendent  irame! 


152  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD    AND   GUN. 


THE    LITTLE  CHICKADEE   WARBLER  OF    THE  WIN 
TER  WOODS.     (Parus  atricapillus.} 

brown  chickadee  still  chirps  on  the  tree, 
Though  it  yields  scanty  wealth  of  larvae  and  bee, 
Though  its  branches  are  stripp'd  of  blossom  and  leaf, 
And  shrill  blows  the  wind  with  a  murmur  of  grief. 

Though  orchards  are  bleak  and  woodlands  are  bare, 
And  the  breath  of  the  winter  hath  frozen  the  air, 
Though  the  brook  in  the  meadow  is  shrunken  and  low, 
For  the  blight  of  the  ice  hath  fetter'd  its  flow; 

Though  the  river  is  white  with  the  icicle  gleam, 
And  the  foliage  all  wither'd  on  banks  of  the  stream, 
Yet  this  blithe  little  bird  remains  with  us  still, 
To  flit  o'er  the  valley  and  skim  o'er  the  hill. 

Ah,  sweet  little  warbler,  why  linger  so  long; 
Why  cheer  our  bleak  forests  with  musical  song, 
While  far  in  the  South  spread  tropical  groves, 
And  perfum'd  the  breeze  perennial  roves? 

There  lie  scenes  that  are  fill'd  with  midsummer  light, 
Where  flower-spread  fields  are  cheerful  and  bright, 
Where  the  roses  and  lilies  bloom  all  through  the  year, 
And  gardens  are  bath'd  in  a  rare  atmosphere. 

There  the  scented  magnolia  sheds  its  perfume, 
And  its  spiring  pyramid  whitens  with  bloom, 
And  the  insects  that  live  in  the  grass  and  the  air 
Invite  ye  a  sumptuous  banquet  to  share. 

But  the  chickadee  does  not  care  to  migrate, 
She  is  chirping  and  carolling  early  and  late; 
Her  sweet  little  chatter  saluteth  the  day, 
And  trilleth  till  twilight  fades  into  gray. 

The  chickadee  hath  plumage  of  brown, 
And  wears  on  its  head  a  black  little  crown. 
Its  song  is  not  querulous,  but  fluty  the  note 
That  in  liquid  cadences  flows  from  its  throat. 


THE    YOSKM1  I'!'    YAI.U'.Y.  153 

'Mid  the  foliage  of  suinnu-r  it  lurks  in  the  woods, 
Where  it  calls  to  its  mate  in  the:  green  solitudes, 
Hut  in  winter  it  comes  to  our  orchards  to  share 
The  larva-  and  seeds,  its  delicate  fare. 

Clad  in  soft  downy  plumage,  the  chickadee 
Fears  no  cold  in  its  nest  in  the  hollow  of  tree: 
And  it  comes  to  the  garden  to  pick  up  the  seed 
The  dear  little  children  cast  out  for  its  feed. 

As  you  walk  in  the  grove  on  a  calm  winter  day, 
You  may  hear  his  sweet  call  from  hedgerow  and  spray, 
And  with  him  the  nut  hatch  and  creepers  abide, 
And  downy  woodpeckers,  all  painted  and  pied. 

As  you  pass,  all  is  still  save  their  tremulous  chime, 
Or  leap  of  the  squirrels  as  the  branches  they  climb, 
The  dropping  of  nuts,  or  flight  of  the  quail, 
Or  whir  of  the  partridge  in  tussock  or  swale. 

O  sweet  little  warbler,  may  nothing  molest 
The  six  snowy  eggs  that  repose  in  your  nest! 
For  the  symphonies  gentle  your  fledgelings  repeal 
Make  the  life  of  boon  nature  in  winter's  retreat. 


THE    YOSEMITE   VALLEY. 

A    SCENE  sublime  is  here  disclos'd— 

Mountain  and  vale,  with  streams  between; 
A  verdurous  garden,  far  outspread, 

With  drooping  woods  of  living  green; 
And  the  Sierras'  snow-clad  cr« 
With  all  their  plumy  pine-trees  drest. 
The  tourist,  lost  in  wonder,  looks 

O'er  mountain  ranges  white  and  vast, 
Crown'd  with  the  everlasting  snows, 

Swept  by  the  fierce,  tempestuous  blast. 


154  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD   AND    GUN. 

Here  rises  high  in  empty  air 

El  Capitan,  thy  royal  cone, 
Thy  bases  girt  with  mighty  woods, 

Thy  summit,  a  majestic  throne; 
Deep  in  the  hollow  vale  below 

The  rolling  Merced  pours  its  tide, 
Reflecting  in  its  mirror'd  face 

Great  shadows  of  the  mountain  side. 

And  here  behold  earth's  grandest  fall, 

The  great  fall  of  the  Yosemite, 
Pouring  adowu  three  thousand  feet 

Its  cataract  of  torrents  white. 
One  sheeted  ghost  of  snowy  foam, 

From  cliff  to  granite  cliff  it  leaps; 
Now  a  bright  rainbow  arch  of  light, 

Now  a  wild  river  prone  it  sweeps. 

List  to  the  thunder  of  its  voice, 
Look  to  the  lightnings  of  its  flash; 

List  how  the  solid  earth  doth  groan, 
Look  to  its  dazzling  arrowy  dash ! 

Where  in  this  rounded  world  may  be 
Such  matchless,  grand  sublimity! 

How  noble  these  great  lakes  outspread 

In  this  remote  enchanted  land! 
Vast  Buena-Vista,  Tulare,  Kern, 

Outstretching  their  expanses  grand. 
And  here  in  league-long  bay  and  cove 

The  wild  fowl  swarm — the  swan,  the  crane, 
The  mallard,  pelican,  and  teal, 

And  geese  that  browse  the  grassy  plain. 
And  here  wild  creatures  roam  at  will, — 

The  bear,  the  puma,  and  the  deer, 
The  wild-cat  with  its  snarling  whelps, 

The  antelope,  of  swift  career. 
No  grander  sportsman's  paradise 

Is  spread  beneath  the  bending  skies! 


Tin:  QB1A1   1HTABCTIO   W.M.I.  Of   [OB.  155 

Here  mariposa  grov<  -  <\icnd. 

And  calavrra.  king  of  all 
The  mightiest  fon-st  trees  of  earth, 

Dark-foliaged,  spires  supremely  tall! 
For  ages  have  their  tops  sublime 

Wrestled  with  storm  and  hurricane, 
Hallled  the  rage  of  snows  and  hail 

•tulting  their  great  brows  in  vain; 
Far  be  the  day  when  they  shall  bend 
Their  necks  to  ignominious  end! 
And  ever  as  the  ages  flow, 

May  this  fair  Eden  of  our  laud, 
Unchang'd  in  wondrous  grandeur  show 

The  works'of  its  Creator's  hand. 


THE  GREAT  ANTARCTIC  WALL  OF  ICE. 

TTERE  rose  a  vast  ice-barrier,  looming  high 

Its  solid  wall  of  adamantine  ice, 
Like  a  grand  city  with  pale  granite  wrought. 
Here  seem'd  to  rise  a  great  cathedral  dome, 
A  monkish  minster  of  the  olden  time, 
With  its  dim  campanile  of  sacred  bells, 
Its  painted  windows  glittering  in  the  light, 
Its  doors  with  arabesques  and  roses  crown'd, 
And  flying  buttresses  and  groined  roofs, 
Its  water- spouts  with  grotesque  gargoyles  wrought, 
O'erspread  with  images  of  martyr'd  saints, 
With  long  processions  bearing  high  the  Host. 

Beyond  these  icy  bergs,  old  scientists 
Have  a  tradition  that  the  open  sea, 
The  great  Antarctic  Ocean,  spreads  its  space; 
That  here  dwell  nations  of  mermen  and  maids, 
Krakens  with  power  to  drag  down  mighty  ships, 
Sea-serpents  of  immeasurable  length. 
And  there,  they  say,  the  Southern  Ice  king  dwells, 
Thron'd  in  his  royal  palace;  here  drives  out 
The  frost-fiends  to  their  labor  on  the  bergs, 
Compell'd  to  store  up  treasures  of  the  snows. 


156  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD    AND   GUN. 

Here,  too,  extend  vast  fields  of  giant  kelp, 
Green  pastures  of  the  ocean  measureless; 
Here  mackerel  shoals  and  herring  countless  swim; 
Here  ivory- tusk'd  walruses  far  disport, 
And  grim  sea-lions.     Here  the  albatross 
Spreads  its  broad  wing,  and  penguins  skim  the  waves; 
Here  wounded  whales  to  these  lagoons  resort, 
Where  sword-fish  or  the  thresher  ne'er  pursue; 
Secure  from  whaler's  lance  and  sharp  harpoon, 
Feeding  at  will  amid  Medusa  bunks. 

O  bleak  Cape  Horn!  the  voyagers  name  thee  well 
"The  Cape  of  Storms;"  a  bare,  inclement  rock, 
Lifting  aloft  its  rugged  shaft  of  stone 
Above  the  foamy  surges  of  the  sea. 
Well  may  the  seamen  bound  for  India's  strand, 
Or  sailing  far  to  Afric's  palmy  shore, 
Crossing  the  broad  Atlantic,  or  the  calm 
Long  billows  of  Pacific  seas, 
Tremble  to  round  the  stormy  Cape  of  Horn ! 
For  here  assail  the  sleety  hail' and  snow, 
And  here  fore'er  careers  the  raging  gale ! 


THE  SAGUENAY  RIVER,  GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

"Three  centuries  ago  Jacques  Cartier,  the  bold  investigator, 
sent  a  boat's  crew  to  explore  the  penetralia  of  this  mighty  river, 
and  they  were  never  heard  of  afterward.  What  wonder,  then, 
that  for  subsequent  decades  of  years  it  should  have  been  invested 
with  a  weird  and  supernatural  character!*' — CHARLES  HALLOCK'S 
Fishing  Tourist. 

JJERE  in  the  wild  Canadian  land 

The  Saguenay  pours  out  its  tide — 
A  dark,  tumultuous,  savage  stream, 

Whose  boiling,  raging  currents  glide 
With  matchless  speed  and  sullen  roar 
Downward  to  ocean's  rock-bound  shore. 

With  eddying  whirl,  with  sudden  shoot 
Its  fathomless  abysses  sweep; 


mi:  -AH  i:\.\v    BIYEB,   QOLf  OK  ST.    I.AUKLV  B.    l.V, 

Now  o'er  a  hidden  shoal  or  Imr, 
Now  o'er  irranitir  ledges  deep; 
So,  ever  with  a  pallid  basic 
The  seaboy  speeds  across  its  waste 

Dark  talcs,  weird  tales  of  wreck, 

Of  woful  horrors,  incu  relate, 
Of  its  immeasurable  depths, 

Of  great  ships  hurried  to  their  fate, 
Of  dangerous  rocks  where,  tempest-tost, 
Brave  men  were  in  vast  whirlpools  lost! 

So  with  stern  awe  the  seamen  pass 

Within  th'  iron-bound  headland's  sweep 
That  guards  the  portals  of  the  stream, 

A  granite  gateway  to  the  deep. 
Across  its  tides  are  shimmering  mists, 

Huge,  spectral  phantoms,  gray  and  grim, 
That  hang  like  shadows  o'er  the  cliffs, 

And  over  gulch  and  gorges  swim. 

Fierce,  gushing  winds  expand  their  wings, 

Cold  as  the  blasts  of  Arctic  shores; 
They  shake  the  solid  granite  walls, 

And  the  lone  pine  that  o'er  them  soars; 
The  place  is  like  some  funeral  vault, 

For  all  is  barren,  wild  and  bleak; 
The  inky  waters  duskier  still 

With  shadows  of  the  soaring  peak. 

Ou  either  hand  two  rugged  capes — 

Grim  Trinity,  Eternity— 
In  savage  grandeur  seem  to  frown 

On  sailing  ship  and  weltering  sea; 
Little  of  verdurous  life  may  cast 

A  smiling  bloom  across  their  side 
Nor  birch  nor  fir  may  drape  the  cliff, 

Or  cascade  plunge  its  foamy  tide, 
For  all  is  awful  solitude 
Boon  Nature  in  her  fiercest  mood! 


158  POEMS   OF   THE   ItOD    AND    GUN. 


BRIEF  SUMMER  IN  THE  ARCTIC  LAND. 

n^HE  dog- sledge  season  now  huth  pass'd  away, 
The  reindeer  team  from  harness  is  releas'd, 
And  merry  June,  the  Arctic  summer,  comes. 
The  wandering  Chookcheese  and  Korans  leave 
Their  earth-built  cabins  at  the  mountain  foot, 
To  dwell  by  surges  where  the  salmon  leap. 

When  vanish  the  last  snows  from  vale  and  mount, 
Boon  Nature  the  hot  Arctic  summer  brings; 
And  as  the  genial  sunshine  earth  pervades, 
The  snowdrifts  melt,  the  icy  rivers  thaw; 
Brown  patches  show  along  the  warm  hillsides, 
And  earth  with  flowers  and  grasses  softly  smiles. 
There  is  no  spring,  but  hot  midsummer  reigns, 
Chasing  away  stern  winter's  ruffian  mouths; 
There  is  no  wet,  long  lingering  time  of  spring, 
No  slow  unfolding  of  the  buds  and  leaves — 
But  Summer  waves  his  wand,  and  all  is  bloom. 
Quick  vegetation  bursts  the  icy  bonds, 
And  with  one  sweep  reanimates  the  world. 
Nature  comes  dancing  with  her  beaming  face, 
And  with  a  lavish  hand  pours  forth  her  wealth. 

Wax-like  petals  of  the  blueberries  show; 
Primroses,  buttercups,  and  cowslips  bloom, 
And  brighten  all  the  mossy  stretches  of  the  plain. 
The  birches,  alders,  willows,  tremulous  flush 
With  all  the  greenery  of  swelling  leaves, 
The  river  banks  grow  green  with  waving  grass; 
The  warm,  still  air  of  day  is  fill'd  with  sounds, 
The  trumpet-like  refrain  of  geese  and  swans, 
Who  pierce  with  wedge-like  phalanxes  the  air, 
Winging  on  stormy  pinions  to  the  north. 

Innumerable  ducks  of  unknown  name 
Swarm  in  each  little  pool  that  studs  the  plain, 
While  fish-hawks,  gulls,  and  broad-wiug'd  eagles  scream 
And  hover  by  the  foamy  river-mouths, 
And  all  the  rocky  coast-line  is  alive 
With  myriads  of  the  red-beak'd  puffin-tribes. 


FROST   PICTURES   ON    WINDOW-PANE.  159 

Over  the  land  innumerable  fly 

The  circling  swallows,  ravens,  and  the  crow; 

But  only  one  poor  bird,  the  sparrow,  sings. 

Thriv  i^  no  longW  night,  but  only  day. 
The  fading  day  melts  gradually  into  night, 
And  the  brief  twilight  blossoms  soon  with  light. 
At  noon  of  night,  one  by  the  window  sits, 
Inhales  the  scent  of  flowers  on  night  winds  borne, 
Listens  to  murmurs  of  the  surge  afar, 
Traces  the  progress  of  the  hidden  sun 
By  the  full  Hood  of  rosy  light  which  streams 
In  the  north  skies  behind  the  purple  mounts. 
1  1  is  broad  daylight,  and  yet  nature  sleeps, 
And  a  weird  culm  pervades  the  heavens  and  earth. 

FROST   PICTURES  ON    WINDOW-PANE    OF    "TURF, 
FIELD,  AND    FA  KM."* 

TRACE  the  silver  fretwork  of  the  frost  upon  my  pane, 

The  erystalli/.ing  pearl-drops  of  the  snowllake  and  the  rain; 
And  1  know  it  is  but  vapor,  condensed  upon  the  glass, 
Yet  how  lifelike  are  its  scenes  that  before  my  vision  pass! 
I  seem  to  see  grand  mountains,  rising  while  amid  the  sky,  . 
The  Alps,  the  Andes,  soaring  majestically  high; 
I  trace  their  airy  summits,  each  peak  and  snowy  cone, 
Their  caves  and  dark  ravines,  where  never  sunbeams  shone. 
I  see  the  falling  torrents  and  the  irla/.iers'  frozen  sea, 
The  larch,  the  pine  tree  forests,  the  sombre  cypress-tree— 
Works  of  no  mortal  painter,  wrought  by  no  human  hand, 
Trac'd  by  the  fairy  Frost-queen  with  her  imperial  wand. 

I  seem  to  see  a  race-course,  the  grand-stand's  crowded  height; 
The  flutter  of  gay  ribbons,  of  Hags  and  banners  bright; 
The  brave  steeds  and  their  riders,  impatient  for  the  race, 
Each  speeding  like  an  arrow  to  take  the  foremost  place. 
And  methinks  I  hear  the  shoutings,  like  thunders  of  the  surf  — 
It  is  the  frantic  plaudits  at  some  triumph  of  the  TURF  ! 

Again  tin;  picture  changes:  I  sec  a  landscape  wide, 
A  fox-hunt,  a  deer-hunt,  where  fast  the  huntsmen  ride. 
I  see  along  the  woodside  the  coveys  as  they  rise, 
*  A  great  Sportsman's  Journal. 


T 


160  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 

And  quick  the  quail-flock  flutters,  and  swift  the  partridge  flies. 
I  see  the  flash,  I  see  blue  smokes  above  the  thicket  float; 
I  see  them  on  the  river,  ascend  from  fowler's  boat; 
I  seem  to  hear  the  guns  that  o'er  the  marshes  peal'd, 
And  echoiugs  of  reports  in  every  stubble  FIELD. 

And  now  the  frost  discloses  a  lovely  summer  scene, 
The  waving  grain,  the  bending  woods,  with  shining  streams  be 
tween. 

I  see  the  gray  old  homestead  o'erhung  with  elm  and  oak, 
I  hear  the  plough-boy's  whistle,  the  Hail's  resounding  stroke. 
And  all  this  scene  of  beauty,  that  every  sense  may  charm, 
Spread  on  the  frosted  casement,  is  some  secluded  FAKM. 

One  other  scene— a  home-scene,  a  fireside  scene  of  joy — 
A  blazing  hearth,  a  flaming  lamp,  sire,  mother,  girl,  and  boy. 
The  father  reads  a  printed  sheet,  the  evening  hour  to  charm, 
It  is  the  sportsman's  journal— the  TURF,  the  FIELD  and  FARM. 


PRAIRIE-CHICKEN  SHOOTING. 

(Tetrao  Cupido.} 

1NTOW  far  the  warm  September  days 

Flush  o'er  the  prairies  with  their  blaze, 
September,  with  its  memories 
Of  healthful  breeze  and  genial  skies; 
For  now  is  nature  in  her  prime, 
The  glorious  September  time, 
When  torrid  heats  of  summer  glare 
Are  tempei-'d  in  the  liberal  air, 
And  in  its  latest  days  there  blows 
The  first  breath  of  the  northern  snows. 
The  year  yet  wears  its  robe  of  green, 
Nor  fading,  yellow  leaf  is  seen ; 
The  orchards  have  not  cast  aside 
Their  emerald  dress  of  summer  pride, 
The  wayside  flowers  of  hedge  and  lane 
Are  tinted  by  no  frosty  stain; 
Yet  all  the  harvest  fields  lie  bare 
Where  late  the  golden  wheat-shocks  were, 


I'UAIKIIX   HlCKliN     ^HOOTING.  161 

And  oat  and  rye  are  gather'd  in 
To  fill  the  granaries'  crowded  bin; 
So  there  the  greedy  grouse-flocks  feed, 
Luxurious,  on  the  juicy  seed. 

In  yellow  stubble-fields  they  hide, 
Scarce  by  the  gunner's  eye  descried, 
Till  the  keen  scent  of  pointer  true 
Detects  those  coveys  hid  from  view, 
And  then  on  clashing,  startled  wing 
They  rise,  and  frighteu'd,  upward  spring; 
But  quick  the  pealing  shot  is  heard, 
And  bleeding,  lifeless,  drops  the  bird. 

Years  since  I  roam'd  thy  broad  domain, 

0  Illinois,  thy  grassy  plain, 
Roam'd  in  September's  perfect  day 
Thro'  endless  pastures  far  away. 
Though  vanish'd  long  hath  many  a  year 
Since  then  I  trod  those  stubbles  sere, 
Since  by  Fox  River's  pleasant  shore, 

Or  where  Rock  River's  currents  pour, 

1  wandcr'd,  watchful  for  the  sight 
Of  teal  and  wood-duck  in  their  flight; 
But  ah !  the  blissful  joy  to  tread 
Where'er  my  devious  footsteps  led! 
To  seek  the  grouse-packs  in  their  lair 
And  end  their  little  lives  in  air; 

Iii  weedy  coverts  to  arouse 

The  shy,  the  strong- wing'd  speckled  grouse; 

To  seek  them  out  at  blush  of  morn, 

Ere  they  forsook  the  ripen'd  corn, 

To  seek  in  coverts  of  the  swale 

The  russet  bevies  of  the  quail, 

To  seek  in  boggy  marsh  and  swamp 

The  woodcock's  solitary  camp. 

When  winter  snows  lie  white  and  deep 
In  many  a  drifted,  shapeless  heap, 
Those  prairie  fowl,  no  longer  found 
In  fields,  their  autumn  feeding-ground, 
In  shivering,  gather'd  legions  seek 
The  tree-top  branches,  bare  and  bleak, 
11 


162  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD    A^D   GUK. 

Or  cluster  ID  long  rows  where  wide 
The  fence-rails  welcome  rest  supplied; 
And  there,  close  hidden,  in  his  blind, 
The  fowler  ample  spoil  would  find. 

Though  years  have  whiten'd  with  their  snow, 
— Time's  blossoms — wither'd  cheek  and  brow, 
Yet  still  in  memory's  magic  glass 
Those  blissful  scenes  unfading  pass, 
Nor  may  they  fade,  as  fades  the  past, 
Till  life  is  render'd  up  at  last. 


SCENE  IN  KAMSCHATKA. 

TT  was  mid-day,  and  yet  the  setting  sun 

Glow'd  like  a  red  ball  at  the  horizon's  edge, 
And  a  dim  twilight  on  the  landscape  fell. 
As  on  we  journeyed  a  white  ptarmigan 
Would  rise  at  times  and  whir  away  in  flight; 
A  magpie  through  the  pines  on  muffled  wings 
Would  pass,  or  yellow  fox  flit  by ; 
An  eagle  high  in  firmament  would  soar, 
But  naught  of  other  life  or  sound  prevail'd. 

Far  off,  a  belt  of  timber  by  a  stream 
Waver' d  and  trembled  in  its  outlines  faint, 
And  the  white,  ghostly  mountains  far  away 
Were  upthrown  in  a  myriad  airy  shapes, 
Which  melted  quickly  like  dissolving  views. 
Each  feature  of  this  Arctic  scene  was  strange, 
And  as  we  gaz'd  the  red  sun  seem'd  to  rest 
On  a  white  peak,  then  sudden  fell  the  night. 

White,  cold,  and  silent,  the  great  waste  outspread, 
Like  a  vast  ocean  frozen  in  its  sweep, 
Faint-lighted  by  the  crescent  of  the  moon, 
And  by  the  blue 'streamers  of  Auroral  Light, 
That  flash'd  and  flicker'd  in  the  southern  skies. 
E'en  when  the  sun  arose,  fiery  and  round, 
In  haze  of  frozen  vapor  in  the  south, 
It  gave  no  light  or  warmth  to  cheer  the  waste; 
With  its  red  glare  it  only  seem'd  to  drown 


A   VISION    OF   TIIK    PAST.  1G3 

Th1  Aurora's  streamers,  blue  ami  tremulous; 
While  the  white  radiance  of  the  moon  and  stars 
Ting'd  like  a  stormy  sunset  the  bleak  snows, 
And  ht  a  mirage,  Moating  up  the  air. 

The  Aurora  touch'd  the  barren,  dreary  steppes, 
And  quick  it  seem'd  a  tropical,  blue  lake, 
Upon  whose  distant  shores  rose  walls  and  domes 
And  slender  minarets  of  Orient  climes; 
But  soon  the  splendid  pageant  pass'd  from  sight, 
And  the  bright  mirage  melted  into  air. 

When  at  nightfall  the  camp-fires  rais'd  their  flames, 
And  all  luxurious  sought  the  bearskin  couch, 
How  pleasant  was  the  talk  of  native  land! 
While  our  stout  Koraks,  picturesquely  group'd 
Around  the  blaze,  sang  wild,  barbaric  songs, 
And  told  their  tales  of  hardships  o'er  the  steppes. 

How  weird  the  scene!  the  steppes  one  crystal  sea, 
Far  stretching  until  lost  in  gloom  of  night; 
While  overhead  the  constellations  bright 
Of  Orion  and  Pleiades  shone  out, — 
Celestial  clocks  to  mark  the  waning  hours. 
Then  quick  th'  Auroral  panorama  grand 
Faded  and  vanish'd,  until  naught  but  mist 
Fur  in  the  north  horizon  show'd  the  place 
Where  Arctic  spirits  draw  their  gleaming  swords 
To  wave  them  nightly  o'er  Siberian  wastes. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  PAST. 
(In  Christmas  number  of  the  New  York  Spirit  of  the  Times.) 

TN  the  darkness  of  my  room,  at  the  dusky  noon  of  night, 

I  sat  and  mus'd  o'er  other  years  that  were  supremely  bright. 
No  flame  of  lamp,  no  blaze  of  fire,  to  cheer  the  midnight  gloom; 
No  spark  of  star,  no  beam  of  moon,  the  darkness  to  illume. 
Yet  as  adown  Time's  corridors,  I  turned  a  wistful  eye 
All  shades  of  darkness  vanish'd  from  landscape  and  from  sky. 

I  saw  as  in  a  gallery,  the  portraits  on  the  wall ; 
The  features  and  the  forms  I  knew,  and  each  I  could  recall; 
As  memory's  magic  wand  I  wav'd,  the  ghosts  of  other  days, 
The  apparitions  of  the  past,  were  present  to  my  gaze. 


164  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Like  landscape  paintings  I  beheld  each  old  familiar  scene 
Where  we    had  trod  the  meadows  or  track'd  the  woodlands 

green. 

We  climb'd  the  breezy  upland,  we  pluug'd  in  bosky  dell, 
In  summer  groves,  or  where  the  leaves  of  russet  Autumn  fell. 

In    hemlock    solitudes  where    roam'd  the  wild  deer-herds    of 

Maine, 

Where  stately  stag  and  tawny  doe  held  undisputed  reign; 
Where  drum-beat  of  the  partridge  and  woodcock's  lonely  cry 
Were  heard  in  piny  forests,  or  where  the  brook  swept  by. 

And  where  the  Adirondacks  their  wastes  immense  extend, 
Where  blue  the  mountain  summits  with  the  horizon  blend, 
And  sparkling  stream  and  crystal  lake  like  gems  the  vales  inlay, 
There,  well  equipp'd  with  rod  and  gun,  we  lov'd  to  take  our  wny. 

And  where  sequester'd  prairies  of  Illinois  outspread, 

Those  measureless  green  pastures  where  thick  the  grouse-flocks 

fed, 

Where  myriads  of  wild  pigeons  and  coveys  of  brown  quail 
Fill'd  grove  and  plain,  there  oft  we  lov'd  to  follow  on  the  trail. 

We  saw  again  in  fancy,  old  ocean's  reefs  and  bar, 

Each  shelly  cove  and  sandspit,  outstretching  gray  and  far, 

Where  oft  we  lay  in  little  boat  at  ambush  for  the  flight 

Of  dusky  brant  or  honking  goose,  from  daydawn  till  the  night. 

And  oft  where  reedy  marshes  and  league-long  meadows  spread, 

And  plover-call  and  curlew-cry  were  resonant  o'erhead 

There  oft  amid    those  screaming  flocks,  to  deal  out  death  we 

came, 
And  home  return'd  with  sumptuous  spoil  of  migratory  game. 

And  when  the  winter  days  had  come,  and  sports  of  field  were 

o'er, 
And  gun  and  rod  and  dog  dismiss'd,  we  sought  our  homes  once 

more; 

We  lov'd  to  sit  by  fireside,  there  to  enjoy  again, 
In  genial  talk,  the  thrilling  sports  of  wood  and  wave  and  plain. 


THI-:  B<  !.M:I;V    ANI>  <;\MI:  <>!•    \VVOMIM;. 

(air  Loring,  of  old  Hoston.  tin-  prince  of  fowlers  rsirc, 
C':in  I  forget  our  royal  sport,  our  hunts  beyond  compare? 
Forget  our  "  Cypress,"  "  Acorn,"  in  these  recording  rhymes, 
Well  known  in  thy  old  sanctum,  ()  Sjiirit  <>f  tin'  Time*. 


Tall  son  of  York'  kind  Porter!  who  might  forget  thy  namcv 
What  memories  fond  do  brighten  at  mention  of  thy  fame' 
So  genial  in  thy  presence,  so  cultur'd  in  thy  mind, 

Giant  in  si/.e  and  strength,  as  woman  soft  and  kind. 

Nor  may  such   names  us  Roosevelt,  Ned  Buntl'me,  Clarke,   ;md 

Scott, 

Sibley  and  Pic-ton,  Foster,  Wilkes,  and  Anthon  be  forgot; 
All  brethren  of  the  rod  and  gun  —  and,  chiefest  among  all, 
Frank  Forester!  What  scenes  those  names  recall! 

Dear  Herbert!  who  so  brilliant,  so  versatile  as  thou? 

Whether  in  smiling  mood  or  with  a  clouded  brow, 

So  earnest  in  the  field  where  flew  the  birds  of  air, 

Or  where  the  trout  and  salmon  fiash'd  in  the  summer  glare. 

These  portraits  of  old  faces,  these  pictures  of  the  Past, 
Glow  ever  in  my  mind,  to  fade  they  will  be  last; 
T.iit,  alas!  the  heavy  shadow  of  the  grave  has  clos'd  forc'er 
O'er  many  that  we  cherish'd.  so  precious  and  so  dear. 


166  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 


FISH. 


SALMON   OF  LABRADOR.     (Salnio  salar.) 

~DY  the  wild  Canadian  shore, 

By  the  sandy  Labrador, 
By  the  rocky  Mingan  Isles, 
And  where  Anticosti  smiles, 
Numberless  the  salmon  shoals 
Gather  where  the  salt  tide  rolls. 

Rivers,  streams  of  crystal  clearness, 
Pour  through  that  far-reaching  strand, 

From  thy  river-month,  St.  Lawrence, 
To  the  coast  of  Newfoundland, 

Far  as  where  the  Belle-Isle  strait 

Opens  to  the  seas  its  gate. 

Cold,  those  rivers,  as  the  fountains 

From  the  wilderness  that  flow, 
Cold  as  waters  of  the  mountains 

Gelid  with  the  ice  and  snow. 
There  amid  the  salt  abysses, 

Or  the  river's  spring  fresh  tide, 
Gleaming,  flashing,  leaping,  diving, 

Shoals  of  lordly  salmon  glide. 

Where  the  river  of  St.  John 

Mingles  with  the  ocean  surf, 
Brown  with  weedy  rocks  and  sand-drifts, 

Green  with  bordering  velvet  turf, 
There  the  angler  with  his  tackle, 

When  the  July  suns  ride  high, 
From  the  dawning  to  the  sunset 

Goes  to  angle  with  the  fly. 


AUTUMNAL   FISHING  167 

Near  thy  alder-skirted  border, 

When  the  Rattling  Run  doth  twine, 
He  erects  his  hut  of  branches, 

Branch  of  hemlock  and  of  pine; 
Floors  it  with  the  cedar  saplings 

Flagrant,  soft  as  couch  of  kings; 
There  enjoys  the  forest  pleasures 

And  the  sleep  that  labor  brings. 

Morning  with  its  dewy  fresh n< 

With  its  rosy,  smiling  skies; 
Calls  him  to  the  brimming  river, 
River  of  transparent  crystal, 
Where  in  ripple  and  in  eddy, 

Or  in  pool,  to  cast  his  flies. 


AUTUMNAL  FISHING. 

r|MIK  river  runs  with  turbid  flow, 

The  weed-chok'd  rivulet  creepeth  slow 
For  all  the  hanging  woods,  that  fringe 
Their  margins,  blush  with  autumn's  tinge, 
And  every  breeze  that  murmurs  past 
Doth  from  the  fading  branches  cast 
A  painted  leaf  of  gold  or  red 
Athwart  the  limpid  surface  shed. 
Patient  the  wandering  angler  heaves 
His  lures  amid  those  floating  leaves, 
Till  spinning  line  and  humming  reel 
Soon  fill  with  spotted  trout  the  creel. 

Unwearied  now  the  anglers  take 
Their  pilgrimage  to  Greenwood  Lake, 
They  float  along  its  lovely  shores, 
Scarce  dipping  the  suspended  oars; 
They  skim  across  its  azure  face 
Forgetful  of  the  finny  race, 
For,  lost  in  admiration,  they 
Linger  the  fair  scene  to  survey, 
Forget  the  black  bass  to  ensnare 
While  gazing  on  a  scene  so  fair. 


168  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 

And  now,  along  the  surging  deep, 
Where  loud  the  salty  breakers  sweep, 
The  fishers  on  some  jutting  cape, 
Where  sea-kelp  the  black  boulders  drape, 
Swing  the  long  rod,  and  cast  the  line 
Across  the  eddies  of  the  brine; 
And  ofttimes  turn  the  wistful  eye 
The  gorgeous  woodlands  to  descry; 
To  view  the  panorama  grand 
Of  foamy  sea  and  fairy  land, 
Those  bending  skies  of  heavenly  blue, 
Earth  rich  with  every  matchless  hue. 

O  roseate  skies,  O  cloudlets  pure, 

That  sail  the  upper  depths  of  air; 
O  earth,  with  all  thy  garniture 

Of  royal  groves  and  woodlands  rare; 
O  breezy  bays,  and  lakes  serene, 

Soon  will  the  winter's  icy  breath 
Blight  all  the  glories  of  the  scene 

And  seal  the  fading  year  in  death. 

THE   SALMON   OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK. 

Jp^AR  up  the  wild  New  Brunswick  coast, 

Cool  crystal  streams  outpour 
From  turfy  bank  and  mossy  rock, 

To  chafe  the  ocean  shore; 
From  hidden,  ice-cold  springs  they  come, 

Far  up  the  forest-land, 
Where  silent  tarn  and  lonely  pool 

Their  watery  fields  expand. 

Fairest  of  all,  the  swift  St.  Croix 

Rolls  on  its  mighty  stream, — 
Fair  with  its  clear,  pellucid  deeps, 

Fair  with  its  sparkling  gleam ; 
Thro'  meadows  fring'd  with  willows, 

Thro'  forest- worlds  of  pine, 
It  pours  its  gelid  waters 

To  mingle  with  the  brine. 


THK    SALMON     OF     N  F.W     I!  K I    N  S\\  I  <   K  .  1C9 

With  fume  and  splash  tumultuous 

It  dashes  on  its  way, 
Past  black,  basaltic  ledges, 

V.(<i  boulders,  moss'd  and  gray; 
Xo\v  dark  it  sleeps  in  shadow, 

'.Mid  overhanging  woods, 
And  now  reflects  the  heaven 

From  its  transparent  floods. 

And  here  in  some  secluded  cove 

Or  recess  of  the  strand, 
The  salmon  drops  its  pearly  eggs 

Amid  the  pure  white  sand; 
And  here  the  infant  fish  disport, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 
Each  little  school  resplendent 

With  gleamy,  silvery  sides. 

When  melting  snows,  at  winter's  close, 

Make  cold  the  river's  flow, 
Then  nature  teaches  that  they  turn 

To  warmer  tides  below. 
Well-grown  in  size  and  strength,  they  pass 

Along  the  budding  shore, 
The  salt,  warm  depths  of  ocean 

To  welcome  and  explore. 

They  pass  by  banks  where  hazels 

Their  catkins  soft  display; 
Where  willow-palms  their  velvet  tufts 

Hang  out  from  sprig  and  spray; 
Where  purple  violets  ope  their  eyes, 

Or  flocks  of  wild-ducks  lead 
Their  yellow  broods  of  ducklings 

From  out  the  sheltering  reed. 

So  down  unto  the  sea  they  pass, 

Down  torrents  swift  and  sheer, 
Past  labyrinth  of  stake-nets, 

Past  rocky  wall  and  weir; 


170  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD   AND    GUN. 

Past  huts  where  smokes  of  woodmen 
Float,  cloud-like,  in  the  air, 

Past  shores  where  fishers'  camp-fires 
Along  the  salt  tides  glare. 

They  reach  at  last  the  sea,  which  far 

Is  spangled  where  they  play; 
They  roam  the  abyss  of  ocean, 

Where  none  may  trace  their  way; 
Yet,  still  they  turn,  year  after  year, 

With  an  unerring  aim, 
To  haunt  the  noble  rivers 

And  brooklets  whence  they  came. 


BROOK   TROUT.    (Salmofontmalis.) 

T1TERE  where  the  Avillowy  thickets  lave 

Their  drooping  tassels  beneath  the  wave, 
There  lies  a  deep  and  darken'd  pool 
Whose  waters  are  crystal-clear  and  cool; 
It  is  fed  by  many  a  gurgling  fount 
That  trickles  from  upland  pasture  and  mount, 
And  where  the  tree-shadows  fall  dense  and  dim, 
The  glittering  trout  securely  swim. 

It  is  a  weird  and  mysterious  spot, 
A  ravine  hollow'd  for  fairy  grot; 
Where  mossy  boulders  and  branches  that  lean 
O'er  the  dark  abyss  are  kept  ever  green ; 
For  the  gushing  spout  of  a  waterfall, 
That  leaps  o'er  the  sloping  granite  wall, 
With  its  refreshing  foam  and  its  spray 
Keeps  herbage  and  foliage  forever  gay. 

'Twould  seem  as  though  fairy  fingers  had  flum 
Their  prodigal  wreaths,  o'er  the  branches  hung; 
The  delicate  woodbine  tendrils  swing, 
The  glossy-leaved  ivies  closely  cling; 
The  grape-vine  clambers  from  shoot  to  shoot, 
Waving  its  purple  clusters  of  fruit; 
The  tree  honeysuckle  sheds  perfume, 
The  laurel  is  lavish  with  rosy  bloom. 


OK  SCOTT'S  "FISHING  IN  AMERICAN  WATERS."  171 

And  here,  where  the  eddies,  so  pearly-white, 
Sink  jiwjiy  into  gloom  or  wheel  into  light; 
\Vhrrr  the  trunk  of  decaying  pine-tree  doth  throw 
Its  leaning  bridge  o'er  the  current's  llo\v, 
The  patient  angler,  with  rod  and  line, 
May  cast  his  Hies  and  his  tackle  so  fine, 
And  soon  his  basket  a  treasure  will  hold 
Of  a/.ure  fishes  o'erspangled  with  gold. 

Tis  a  wild,  wizard  place,  for  the  shadows  that  rest 
O'er  the  cavernous  grot,  o'er  the  rivulet's  brea-t, 
Seem  ever  so  weird  and  so  mystical  there 
That  men  say  'tis  haunt  of  the  spirits  of  air — 
That  strange  goblin  shapes,  grotesque  and  immense, 
Are  disclos'd  to  the  passer-by's  terrified  sense, 
And  ne'er  will  the  ghost-frighted  school-child  invade 
With  footsteps  intrusive  the  gloom  of  the  shade. 

In  the  meadows  below,  neither  thicket  nor  bush 
Cast  their  shadowy  screen  o'er  the  rivulet's  gush, 
But  boiling  o'er  pebbles,  and  bright  in  the  sun, 
The  frolicsome  waters  all  twinkle  and  run; 
And  there,  when  the  cloud-shadows  darken  the  day, 
The  skill  of  the  angler  will  triumph  with  prey, 
And  his  creel  overflow  with  glittering  prize, — 
With  trout  all  enamell'd  and  radiant  with  dyes. 


ON    READING    G.    C.   SCOTT'S   "FISHING   IN  AMERI- 
CAN  WATERS,"  IN  WINTER. 

A/FUSING  o'er  these  fair  pages,  I  forget 

These  falling  snows  and  the  white,  crystal  ice 
That  free/e  all  nature  in  this  wintry  day, 
But  taste  in  fancy  the  refreshing  airs 
Of  spring-time  with  its  roses  and  its  blooms. 

What  though  the  twisting  brook  lies  mute  and  still. 
The  frozen  water-wheel  revolves  no  more, 
In  adamantine  death  the  river  rests, 
And  grinding  ice-floes  chafe  the  dreary  coast? 
Still  in  these  pages  I  recall  once  more 


172  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 

The  voice  of  waters,  and  explore  again 

The  flowing  brook  and  grassy-margin'd  stream. 

I  seem  to  see  along  the  wither'd  woods, 
O'er  willow  thicket  and  o'er  alder  copse, 
O'er  the  brown  herbage  of  the  upland  field, 
And  down  the  dipping  hollows  of  the  vale, 
A  soft  brigl it  verdure,  tremulous  and  green, 
Creeping  and  rustling  o'er  the  landscape's  face. 
The  brook,  releas'd  from  iron  bondage,  leaps 
And  laughs  and  runs  exultingly  away; 
The  river  gleams  and  ripples  into  light, 
Singing,  with  all  its  waters  as  it  flows 
Past  sandy  coves  and  under  branching  groves. 

Again  the  spring-trout,  with  his  spotted  side. 
Flashes  o'er  sandy  shoal  and  purple  deeps; 
Again  the  spangled  salmon  of  the  sea 
Cleaves  the  salt  surf  and  leaps  the  crystal  fall; 
Again  the  bass,  with  silver  scales  emboss'd, 
Gleams  in  the  combing  breakers  of  the  shore. 

Celestial  fancy  with  her  fairy  wand 
Enchants  each  wintry  landscape  till  it  smiles; 
Far  off,  immense,  each  Northern  lake  expands 
The  vast  extent  of  all  its  watery  world, — 
Its  dark  abysses,  its  transparent  coves, 
Its  tranquil  bays,  its  forest-girdled  edge, 
And  all  the  blissful  haunts  the  angler  loves. 

O  thoughtful  angler!  loving  well  the  toil 
To  tread  the  tangled  brook  or  river-marge, 
To  wield  the  tapering  rod  o'er  ocean  tides, 
Or  breezy  gulf,  or  inland  lakes  immense, 
We  thank  thee  for  the  lessons  thou  hast  taught — 
This  added  treasure  to  the  angler's  lore. 

Fair  smile  the  skies,  and  soft  may  breezes  blow 
(The  soft  south  breeze— to  angler's  heart  so  dear), 
And  green  may  blossoming  groves  their  garlands  show. 
And  woodland  choristers  fresh  tune  their  harps, 
When  thou  dost  follow  in  the  coming  year 
The  gentle  angler's  meditative  art. 


rHANNKl.-1'.ASS    lISHIMi     IN     ri.OKIDA. 


CHANNEL  BASS  FISHING  IN  FLORIDA. 

tl Scitrnops  osccUntii— called  red  drum  ou  the  Virginia  coast; 
spotted  bass,  or  spot,  in  South  Carolina;  red  bass  or  channel  bass 
in  Georgia  and  Florida;  red  fish  in  New  Orleans." — S.  C.  CLAUKK, 

in  "  l''i*liiii<j  "jf  the  /-.'/ixf  Atlantic  Coast." 

scmic-tropic  land,  where  gentle  breezes  blow 
And  flowers  perennial  in  wild  gardens  grow ; 
In  this  bleak  northern  realm  I  dreamful  muse 
Of  the  rose  colors  that  thy  skies  suffuse. 
Fain  would  forget  that  here  the  frosty  air 
Inclement  sweeps  o'er  hills  and  meadows  bare; 
Here  spear-point  icicles  depend  from  wall, 
Frost  pictures  dim  the  casements  of  the  hall ; 
The  river  mute  in  pulseless  slumber  sleeps, 
A  ghastly  pallor  o'er  its  surface  creeps. 
The  crystal  waterfall,  that  erewhile  tost 
Its  volum'd  sheet,  is  now  enchain'd  with  frost; 
A  filmy  veil  is  drawn  across  the  sky, 
Thick  down  the  air  the  gem  like  snowflakes  fly; 
The  fields,  the  uplands  stretch  a  frozen  waste, 
And  all  the  summer  landscape  is  effac'd. 

But  bright,  O  Florida,  the  waning  year 
Smiles  o'er  thy  waters  and  thy  cloud-lands  clear; 
The  fowler  comes  thy  swarming  flocks  to  thin, 
The  angler  comes  the  luring  spoon  to  spin, 
To  take  by  sandy  beach  or  marshy  grass 
The  tarpum,  grouper,  or  the  channel  bass. 

The  noble  bass,  with  scales  intensely  dyed, 
At  bay  and  inlet  drift  in  with  the  tide; 
A  roving  fish,  deep  channels  it  explores, 
Mudflats  and  oyster-beds  and  shelly  shores; 
Where  slimy  wreck  lies  buried  in  the  deeps 
It  finds  its  chosen  haunt,  its  harvest  reaps; 
A  fish  omnivorous,  it  seeks  its  prey 
Wherever  mollusks  hido  or  mullets  play; 
A  fish  voracious,  it  is  brave  in  bite, 
Persistent,  strong,  'tis  valorous  in  fight; 


174  POEMS   OP   THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 

As  gamy  fish  the  red  bass  has  no  peer, 
No  rival  champion  in  the  currents  clear. 

Warm-weather  fish,  in  summer's  sunny  time 
They  swarm  the  shores  of  genial  southern  clime; 
There,  off  the  sand-flat,  anchor'd  in  his  boat 
The  angler  sees  them  fearless  round  him  float; 
They  circle  near  in  heedless  leap  and  play, 
And  fall  to  trolling-liue  an  easy  prey. 
But  when  the  north  winds  smite  Floridian  coast, 
By  beach,  by  island  vanishes  their  host; 
In  the  deep  holes,  dark  recesses  of  tide, 
Sulking  in  castle,  they  delight  to  hide. 

In  soft  May  season,  when  the  seas  are  warm, 
Around  the  sandy  beach  they  love  to  swarm; 
The  angler  then  thro'  crested  surf  may  press 
And  cast  his  mullet  bait  with  sure  success, — 
Cast  it  in  sloughs,  inside  the  surf  that  flow, 
And  gain  a  prize  with  every  vigorous  throw. 


THE   YELLOW   PERCH.     (Perca flavescens.) 

T  IGHT  laughs  the  morn  of  June ;  soft  bends  the  sky, 

One  boundless  sea  of  azure,  save  where  fleck'd 
By  sailing  cloud,  slow  flitting  o'er  its  space. 
It's  the  school-child's  holiday.     He  hears 
Far  off  the  call  to  field  and  wood  and  brook ; 
He  hears  the  hollow  plash  of  waterfall, 
The  murmur  of  the  river's  full-brimm'd  tide, 
The  songs  of  birds,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  all  the  joyous  sounds  of  rural  life. 

With  rod  in  hand  he  seeks  the  winding  brook, 
In  dim  secluded  hollow  of  the  wood, 
Or  treads  the  weedy,  willow-girdled  marge 
Of  lonely  inland  waters,  or  the  shore 
Of  mountain  brook,  unshadow'd  by  a  tree, 
Where  brawls  the  crystal  tide  o'er  sands  and  stones. 

Leaning  on  mossy  rock,  at  edge  of  pond, 
Screen'd  by  the  shadow  of  some  drooping  tree, 
The  golden  hours  slip  by.     Around  him  swim 


THi:    YKII.OW    1'KUrlI.  175 

His  prey,—  the  spangled  perch,  so  rough  with  scales, 

Gorgeous  with  olive  back  and  russet  /ones 

That  gird  them  round,  and  sparkling  yellow  sides. 

When  far  advanc'd  the  summer,  the  shy  perch 
Forsakes  the  dim  and  amber-tinted  deeps, 
To  seek  the  clear  and  colder  tides  at  edge 
Of  whirling  eddies  and  of  ripples  swift. 
And  there  pursues  the  minnows  as  they  glide. 
When  the  green  water-weeds  mature  in  growth, 
Hid  in  their  friendly  shade  he  loves  to  lurk. 
lie  loves  the  grassy  bottoms,  but  when  first 
The  nipping  black-frost  cuts  the  fading  weeds, 
And  wither'd  are  the  submerg'd  water  plants, 
Those  yellow  shoals  to  river-deeps  retire. 

Wide  o'er  the  world  the  red-perch  finds  a  home 
In  varied  climates.     In  the  grandest  streams 
Whose  currents  gladden  European  realms, 
Far  up  beyond  the  influence  of  tides, 
And  in  the  tiniest  rivulet  that  creeps 
And  trickles  down  the  Alpine  mountain  slopes, 
They  still  abound  in  legions  infinite. 

The  school-child  loves  them  well.     No  sluggish  pond 
Where  clangs  and  toils  the  churning  water-wheel, 
No  darksome  pool  beneath  the  leaning  dam, 
No  brimming  river  and  no  crystal  brook 
Where  range  the  gorgeous  perch,  arc  unexplor'd. 

They  love  the  open  sparkling  stream  that  sweeps 
By  grassy  meadow  and  by  daisied  field; 
But  when  the  blazing  heats  of  midsummer 
Burn  fervid  o'er  the  surface  of  the  Wane, 
They  seek  for  haunt  the  checker'd  leafy  screen 
By  the  o'er-leaning  willow  branches  made; 
But  when  the  rosy  twilight  fades  apace, 
And  evening  drops  her  purple  curtains  'round, 
The  swarming  school  swims  joyous  forth  again. 
To  seek  the  open  stream's  wide  spread  e\pan>r. 


176  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 


A  FAR-WESTERN  RIVER. 

TT  was  a  lovely  stream,  deep  in  the  forest's  heart, 

A  stream  from  human  habitation  far  apart, 
Like  jewel  by  some  careless  hand  dropt  down, 
In  green  oasis  to  the  world  unknown. 
No  homes  of  man,  save  here  and  there  display'd 
A  mossy  log-hut  by  the  hunters  made, 
By  rough  frontiersmen  rais'd,  a  robust  race 
That  follow'd  here  the  wild  beasts  of  the  chase. 
Trappers  and  scouts,  who  had  no  heart  to  know 
The  beauties  of  the  stream,  its  ebb  and  flow, 
In  vain  for  them  the  waves  would  murmur  song, 
In  vain  the  wood-arcades  the  sound  prolong. 
O  woods  magnificent,  how  grand  ye  are, 
Lifting  your  stately  columns  high  in  air, 
O'ershadowing  the  stream  with  banners  green, 
Upholding  your  broad  shields,  an  ample  screen! 
The  water-fowl  here  come  the  gelid  fount  to  drink, 
Wild  antelopes  disport  along  the  grassy  brink, 
Great  buffaloes  dash  by,  and  song-birds  of  the  wood 
With  madrigals  salute  the  list'ning  solitude. 
In  winter,  when  the  brooks  are  voiceless  all, 
And  scarce  a  tinkle  hath  the  waterfall; 
When  crystal  ice  ensheathes  thee  with  its  mail, 
Then  lonely  art  thou — lifeless,  cold,  and  pale. 
Ah,  all  the  summer  silences  and  sound! 
Delicious  are  they  in  this  peace  profound, 
Where  all  calamities,  despairs  of  life, 
Have  never  vex'd  your  haunts  with  baleful  strife. 
Thy  virgin  waves  have  never  heard  the  tread 
Of  angler  loitering  by  thy  sandy  bed ; 
Have  never  seen  the  gay  delusive  fly 
Dropt  in  the  ripples  where  thy  fishes  lie. 
Here  through  the  ages  they  have  sportful  play'd 
In  calm  lagoon,  or  'neath  the  white  cascade; 
There  spangled  trout  like  Indian  shafts  have  flash'd, 
Thro'  deeps  transparent  dusky  bass  have  dash'd. 


BROOK-TROUT  "OUT  OF  SEASON."  177 

Soon  white-topt  wains  of  emigrants  shall  come, 
Mill-wheels  shall  clank  and  factory-spindles  hum, 
Along  thy  shore  the  busy  crowds  shall  pour, 
And  Nature's  peaceful  reign  pervade  no  more. 
Fashions  and  forms  of  civil  life  will  reign, 
Woodsmen  and  traders  throng  the  lonely  plain; 
Loud,  gainful  life  o'er  all  the  realm  prevail, 
And  Solitude  depart  from  stream  and  vale! 


THE  BROOK -TROUT'S  COMMENTS  UPON  DELMONI- 
CO'S  DREAM. 

NOTE. — At  a  dinner  given  in  the  winter  of  1867-8,  at  Dclmon- 
ico's  establishment  in  New  York,  to  General  Sheridan  and  other 
distinguished  officers,  a  dish  of  brook-trout  "out  of  season"  was 
set  before  the  guests,  who  all  declined  to  partake  of  the  prohibited 
dainty.  The  late  lamented  poet,  Sergeant  Miles  O'Reilly,  who 
was  one  of  the  number,  published  a  sportive  poem  soon  after 
wards,  in  which  he  describes  the  worthy  host  as  being  haunted 
in  his  dreams  by  the  reproachful  spirit  of  the  doomed  trout,  and 
which  suggested  these  verses.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  Delmonico, 
who  was  a  true  sportsman,  was  not  responsible  for  the  presence  of 
the  unseasonable  fish,  as  lie  was  then  absent  from  the  country. 

f  ^RISP,  juicy,  brown  as  autumn  leaf, 

The  murder'd  beauty  grac'd  the  board, 
Its  life  of  pleasure  come  to  grief, 

Its  blood  untimely  pour'd: 
Stark  on  its  silver  dish  it  lies, 

Wliile  sparkling  glasses  round  it  shine, 
Vases  of  flowers  entwine  their  dyes, 

And  flames  the  ruby  wine. 

Delmonico,  of  world-wide  fames, 

Hath  spread  the  board  to  tempt  the  guest; 
Phil  Sheridan  is  there,  and  names 

Of  bravest  and  of  best! 
But  none  of  all  the  jocund  band 

Gather'd  that  festive  board  about, 
"\Vill  touch  with  sacrilegious  hand 

That  poor  "  unseason'd  trout." 
12 


178  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD   AND    GUK. 

Outstretch'd  upon  its  costly  bier, 

The  murder'd  victim  thus  doth  seem 
To  murmur  low  in  fancy's  ear 

Its  sad  lamenting  theme; 
Reproaching  with  a  piteous  strain 

Delmonico,  the  sumptuous  host, 
And  the  mean  poacher  that  hath  slain — 

And  thus  outspake  the  ghost: 

"Ah!  Del.,  no  marvel  you  confess, 

In  dreams  of  night  I  blight  thy  sleep, 
That  on  thy  drowsy  soul  I  press, 

And  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweep; 
No  wonder  that  tormenting  dreams 

Of  vengeful  sportsmen  haunt  thy  rest, 
In  visions  of  depleted  streams, 

Where  poachers  dark  molest ! 

"  Ah!  lovely  was  the  life  I  led 

In  crystal  streams  of  azure  deeps, 
Where  rippling  o'er  its  golden  bed 

The  river-current  sweeps; 
There  weeping- willows  droop  their  plumes, 

The  twinkling  birch  its  pomp  displays ; 
The  air  is  fragrant  with  perfumes, 

All  flush'd  with  sunny  rays. 

"  Disporting  in  the  gelid  tide, 

Enchanted  sped  each  fleeting  year, 
Far-floating  with  my  spangled  bride 

In  watery  career. 
I  lov'd  each  curv'd  and  yellow  bay, 

The  sandy  bar,  the  pebbled  cove, 
The  shallows  where  the  lilies  lay 

And  trees  their  shadows  wove. 

"  And  fair  the  brook  in  winter-time, 
When  mute  and  frozen  in  its  bed 
It  sleeps  beneath  the  frosty  rime 
All  motionless  and  dead. 


AN     AMCAKirM     IN     A     IIOOKSTOIIE    WINDOW.          179 

For  there  I  fear'd  nor  seiue  nor  net, 

Nor  poacher's  steel  nor  angler's  line; 
Secure  in  waters,  could  forget 

The  snares  for  me  and  mine. 

"  Though  dead,  I  pardon  for  the  sake 

That  thou  hast  said  that  never  more 
Shall  guest  "  unseason'd  trout"  partake 

Within  thy  social  door. 
My  poor  ghost  shall  not  haunt  again; 

May  sleep  with  gentle  balms  descend, 
And  dreams  Elysian  steep  thy  brain ; — 

Be  thou  the  poor  trout's  friend!" 


ON  SEEING  AN  AQUARIUM  IN  A  BOOKSTORE 
WINDOW. 

TTERE  in  your  cell  of  glass, 
Fast  by  the  thronging  avenue,  ye  keep 
Your  home,  O  finny  natives  of  the  deep! 

That  all  may  see  who  pass. 

The  sunshine  of  the  day 

Gleams  thro'  the  pictur'd  windows  in  your  home, 
And  the  soft  twilight  gilds  your  crystal  dome 

With  many  a  checkered  ray. 

The  school-child  stops  to  look, 
And  views  your  playful  sports  with  wondering  eyes, 
Charm'd  with  your  glittering  scales  and  mottled  dyes, 

Bright  troutlings  of  the  brook! 

He  enters  at  the  door 

To  seek  some  book,  so  dear  to  heart  of  boy, 
But  drops  the  pictur'd  page — the  pretty  toy — 

Thy  wonders  to  explore. 

He  marvels  how  the  bright, 

The  spotted  trout,  that  loves  the  meadow'd  stream, 
The  gold-fish,  shining  like  a  prismy  beam, 

The_minnow,  silver-white, 


180  POEMS    OF   THE    HOD    AND    GUN. 

Should  swim  harmonious  there, 
With  the  salt  minnows,  eels,  and  crabs  that  creep, 
And  all  the  grotesque  creatures  of  the  deep, 

And  the  same  dwelling  share. 

He  feels  that  God  above, 
Who  order'd  in  His  wise  and  heavenly  plan 
That  all  the  varied  brotherhood  of  man 

Should  live  in  peace  and  love, 

Hath  so  ordain'd  the  rule 
That  all  the  lesser  tribes  of  land  and  sea — 
The  fish,  the  fowl — though  diverse,  should  agree 

In  nature's  common  school. 

Will  e'er  that  day  have  birth 
When  the  meek  lamb  shall  with  the  lion  rest, 
The  kid  find  shelter  in  the  tiger's  breast, 

And  love  pervade  the  earth? 

When  all  this  earth  that  tread— 
The  birds  of  air,  the  beasts  that  range  the  wild — 
Shall  gentle  be  as  new-born  helpless  child, 

And  blood  no  more  be  shed ! 


EEL-SPEARING  BY  TORCHLIGHT.     (Anguilla.) 

'T^HE  skies  are  dark;  the  moon  is  hid 

Behind  the  dusky  cloud  of  night; 
A  bank  of  drift-fog  from  the  surge 

Hangs  heavy  on  the  sea-shore  height; 
No  hovering  breeze  uplifts  its  wing 

Aside  the  misty  gloom  to  fling. 

But  see!  a  star  along  the  wave 
Moves  slow  and  devious,  to  and  fro; 

Now  like  a  blazing  camp-fire  flares, 
Now,  flickering,  trembles  faint  and  low. 

Anon  it  steady  glows  and  burns, 
As  hither  thro'  the  gloom  it  turns. 


WIIKX    THIS    <)!.!»    KOI)    WAS    N  K\V.  1S1 

Tis  the  cel-spearer's  pitchy  torch 

That  like  a  lightship's  lantern  flings 
Its  ruddy,  quivering  bar  of  light, 

As  in  the  rigging  high  it  swings. 
Nrnier  and  nearer,  thro'  the  dusk, 

The  smoky  flambeau  slow  doth  float, 
And  now  the  gnome-like  fisherman 

Shows  dimly  in  his  drifting  boat. 

Standing  with  trident  spear  uprais'd, 

All  shadowy  on  his  task  intent, 
He  shows  like  goblin  of  the  mine 

On  some  weird,  fiendish  orgie  bent. 
He  pauses,  for  the  shooting  flame 

Reveals  the  slippery  prey  below; 
With  sudden  plunge  he  thrusts  the  spear, 

Then  draws  it  upward  to  the  glow; 
And  see!  the  captives  twist  and  coil, 

Dark  victims  of  his  midnight  toil. 


WHEN  THIS  OLD  ROD  WAS  NEW. 

T\7"HEN  this  old  rod  was  new, 
'Twas  in  the  vanish'd  time, 
When  step  was  light  and  eye  was  bright, 

And  youth  was  in  its  prime. 
Oh!  bright  were  then  the  skies 

In  the  glory  of  the  dawn, 
When  the  dews  that  gemm'd  the  grass 

Shone  in  the  rosy  morn. 

Then  oped  the  garden  gate, 

And  down  the  bowery  lane, 
Iledg'd  in  with  elm  and  chestnut, 

My  hasty  path  was  taVn; 
And  to  the  brawling  brooks 

That  thro'  the  meadows  twine 
I  hurried  fast,  with  heart  elate, 

With  the  new  rod  and  line. 


182  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

When  this  old  rod  was  new, 

Full  oft  by  the  mill-dam  edge, 
Where  the  water-lilies  grew 

And  the  cat-tails  and  the  sedge, 
I  stood  on  the  bank,  and  threw 

My  line  for  the  perch  and  bream, 
In  the  cool,  transparent  stream, 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  up  where  the  mountain  brook 

Pour'd  swift  over  stone  and  sand, 
Over  yellow  sand  and  crystal  stone 

I've  stood  with  this  rod  in  hand. 
Then,  where  the  dark  eddies  whhTd, 

In  the  shadow  of  pine  and  yew, 
I  cast  my  silken  tackle 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

I  knew  that  under  the  bank, 

Where  deep  was  the  pool  scoop'd  out, 
Where  the  black  tree-roots  were  hidden, 

There  lurk'd  the  spotted  trout. 
Then  cautious  and  muffled  my  step, 

And  skilful  the  cast  that  I  threw, 
And  glorious  the  captive  prizes 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  oft  on  the  ocean  border, 

Where  the  salt  sea-surges  beat, 
On  weedy  and  slippery  boulder, 

Have  I  stood  my  daring  feet ; 
And  there  from  profound  abysses 

The  bass  from  their  caves  I  drew, 
Rejoicing  in  my  triumphs 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  now  that  the  silver  circlet 
Of  Time  on  my  head  is  laid, 

And  years  with  their  wintry  blossoms 
My  furrow'd  brow  invade, 


T11K    I'OY    ANOLKK.  1  ^:> 

I  still  by  the  brook  and  the  seaside, 

Those  early  sports  renew, 
And  find  the  pastime  as  pleasant 

As  when  this  old  rod  was  new. 


THE  BOY  ANGLER. 

TTNDER  the  bridge  that  spans  the  stream- 
Stream  that  gurgles  and  prattles  away, 
Stream  that  flashes  with  many  a  gleam — 

The  boy  would  pass  the  holiday. 
I  wonder  if  ever  in  all  the  earth 

A  happier  heart  warm'd  human  breast; 
If  ever  such  perfect,  such  rapturous  mirth, 

Was  known  as  in  that  Eden  blest! 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  gorgeous  king, 

In  midst  of  all  his  jewell'd  court, 
Royal  with  sceptre  and  crown  and  ring, 

Had  ever  such  rich,  ecstatic  sport. 

The  bridge  was  ancient  with  log  and  beam, 
And  over  it  droop'd  the  willow-trees, 

Dipping  their  catkins  in  the  stream, 
Asylum  for  fluttering  birds  and  bees; 

And  here  in  this  dim,  secluded  cave 

The  boy  would  come  to  muse  o'er  the  wave. 

He  mus'd,  for  he  lov'd  all  beauteous  sights, 

All  sounds  delicious  that  charm'd  the  place; 
The  insects  gay,  small  water-sprites, 

That  skimm'd  and  circled  in  mazy  race; 
The  water-ouzel  flitting  there, 

The  blue  kingfisher,  perch'd  on  spray, 
Then  dropping  quick  from  leafy  lair, 

Shrill  screaming  as  he  seiz'd  his  prey. 

And  here  the  poor  barefooted  boy, 
With  tatter'd  jerkin  and  hat  of  straw, 

Enjoy'd  the  bliss,  the  speechless  joy, 
The  angler's  rapture,  without  a  flaw. 


184  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUtf. 

He  watch'd  the  minnow's  quivering  fin, 

And  silvery  perch  go  swimming  by, 
The  sunfish  darting  out  and  in, 

The  pickerel  snap  at  the  gaudy  fly; 
The  little  shiner,  like  diamond  spark, 
Shoot  through  the  waters  deep  and  dark, 
And  the  trout,  like  glancing  Indian  shaft, 
Defying  even  his  cunning  craft. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  note  the  frog 
That  sat  open-mouth'd  on  weedy  log; 
To  note  the  turtles,  all  speckled  o'er, 
Bask  on  the  slippery  rocks  of  the  shore; 
The  muskrats  paddling  in  sluggish  play, 
And  mink  and  the  otter  on  their  way. 

It  was  pleasant  when  hot  midsummer  days 
Scorch'd  earth  and  air  with  fervid  blaze, 
When  the  very  atmosphere  seem'd  to  swoon 
With  the  drowsy  influence  of  the  noon, 
To  sit  in  his  hermit  cell  and  share 
The  voices  of  nature  in  the  air; 
The  chirp  of  the  cricket  in  the  grass, 
The  snap  of  the  grasshoppers  as  they  pass, 
The  anthems  of  song-birds  in  the  hedge, 
The  whistle  of  snipe  across  the  sedge, 
And  all  the  entrancing  symphonies 
Of  breeze  and  of  wave,  of  birds  and  bees — 
All  paintings  of  nature's  matchless  art, 
All  music  of  nature  that  thrills  the  heart. 


THE  PORPOISE. 

TN  all  the  tides  of  ocean  in  the  seas 

That  chafe  around  the  utmost  Northern  coast, 
Where  toppling  cliffs  from  icy  pinnacles 
Plunge  in  the  surf,  and  icebergs  roll  and  toss, 
And  crystal  floes  of  adamantine  ice 
Drift  on  their  way — there  art  thou  frequent  found. 


THE  ANGLER'S  CHANT.  185 

The  fur-cl:ul  Esquimau,  in  t>kiu  cunoc, 
Plying  his  paddle  in  inclement  seas, 
Follows  thy  schools;  und  the  swart  Laplander 
With  his  bone  lance  pursues  thee  to  the  death. 

And  in  serener  latitudes,  where  smooth 
The  smiling  main  scarce  ruffles  its  expanse, 
Hound  Indian  isles  that  gem  the  purple  deeps, 
Where  spicy  forests  breathe  ambrosial  balms 
And  palm-trees  dip  their  tassels  in  the  wave, — 
There,  too,  thy  gambolling  multitudes  abound. 

The  Patagouian,  on  his  rocky  cape 
Gazing  o'er  ocean,  views  ye  as  ye  pass, 
And  the  big  ship  that  through  Magellan's  Strait 
Heats  'gainst  the  battling  winds,  beholds  thy  course. 
Far  in  Pacific  tides,  the  passing  fleet 
Bound  for  remotest  India,  meets  thy  shoals, 
Tumbling  and  plunging  past  the  foamy  prow; 
And  oft  the  seaman  on  the  vessel's  deck 
Transfixes  thee  with  lance  or  sharp  harpoon. 

In  the  salt  bays  and  estuaries  wide, 
Far  as  the  broad  Atlantic  beats  the  coast, 
From  coral  reefs  of  Florida  to  the  rocks 
Of  utmost  North,  thy  roving  schools  abound. 


THE  ANGLER'S   CHANT. 

AH,  the  shriek  of  the  reel,  the  trout-fisher's  reel! 

No  sound  is  so  sweet  to  the  ear; 
The  hum  of  the  line,  the  buzz  of  the  wheel! 
Where  the  crystalline  brook  runs  so  clear. 

Here's  a  shade  on  the  stream  where  the  willows  bend  down, 

Where  the  waters  sleep  drowsy  and  dim, 
And  there  where  the  ripples  whirl  amber  and  brown 

The  lords  of  the  rivulets  swim. 

Then  fling  the  light  tackle  with  delicate  cast, 

Let  your  fly  like  a  cobweb  alight, 
A  dash  and  a  splash,  and  the  victim  is  fast, 

While  your  reel  sings  a  song  of  delight. 


186  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

See,  yonder  a  green-moss'd  boulder  enchecks 

The  stress  of  the  turbulent  tides, 
And  there  amid  bubbles  and  foam-bell  flecks 

The  gold-spotted  brook-trout  hides. 

The  sweet  breezes  blow,  the  morning  sun  shines, 
The  white  clouds  drift  slow  down  the  sky; 

'Tis  a  day  that  is  perfect  for  sport  with  the  lines, 
For  artistic  cast  of  the  fly. 

Ah,  haste  to  the  shore,  brother  angler,  to-day, 
On  the  weedy  gray  rock  take  your  place, 

Where  the  surf,  at  its  base,  makes  glorious  race, 
And,  like  rainbows,  glitters  the  spray! 

Cast  your  eye  o'er  the  blue  expanses  of  sea; 

Plow  lovely,  how  grand  is  the  scene! 
The  great  rolling  waves,  now  dusky,  now  green, 

Forever  rejoicing  and  free, 

See  the  flash  of  the  bluefish  over  the  main, 

The  gleam  of  the  bright  striped  bass! 
Then  the  braided  line  fling,  let  the  reel  hum  its  strain, 

And  so  the  gay  moments  shall  pass. 


BUNKER-FISHING.     (Alosa  menhaden.) 

QN  ocean  waters,  sound,  and  bay, 

The  twinkling  Maytime  sunbeams  play, 
And  white  with  foam  the  billows  shine 
Where  the  moss-bunkers  lash  the  brine. 
Above  them  flocks  of  seagulls  swing; 
Beneath,  the  hungry  bluefish  spring, 
And,  deadlier  still,  the  surf-men  strain 
The  oar,  and  run  the  meshing  seine. 

Where  sweeps  the  broad  and  breezy  bay 
Engirt  by  shores  with  woodlands  gay, 
In  shoals  innumerable  as  sands 
That  sparkle  in  the  wrinkled  strands, 


BUNKER-FISHING.  1S7 

The  bunkers  gather  on  the  flood, 
Roaming  the  ocean-paths  for  food; 
And  here  the  fisher-boats  invade, 
Deep  with  the  shining  burden  weighed. 

Off  by  the  low  New  Jersey  shore, 
Off  where  Long  Island  surges  roar, 
Off  where  the  Narragansett  Bay 
Its  tribute  to  the  sea  doth  pay, 
Off  Massachusetts'  Bay  profound, 
Off  Maine  shores  with  their  pine  woods  crown'd, 
Off  where  the  billows  chafe  and  fret 
O'er  rocks  along  New  Brunswick  set, 
The  fish  innumerable  pass 
O'er  tumbling  seas,  or  seas  of  glass. 

The  watchman's  eye  from  sandy  mound, 
Or  eyrie  in  some  tall  tree  found, 
Surveys  the  broad  extended  main, 
Views  of  the  fishy  shoal  to  gain; 
And  when  the  welcome  prize  draws  near 
In  acres,  o'er  the  waters  clear, 
He  hoists  his  signal  to  the  breeze, 
That  all  may  hasten  to  the  seas. 

Then  rush  the  crews  from  shop  and  field, 
Leave  plough  in  glebe  the  oar  to  wield; 
The  surf-boat  down  the  beach  is  drawn, 
The  oar  is  seiz'd  with  arm  of  brawn, 
The  boat  is  launch'd  where  breakers  pour, 
While  guides  the  helmsman  with  the  oar. 

Then  hard  and  emulous  the  toil, 
Rivals  all  anxious  for  the  spoil ; 
The  ablest  boat,  the  manliest  crew, 
Tug  hard  with  muscle  and  with  thew, 
And  victor  in  the  race  surrounds 
The  leaping  fish  with  snaring  bounds; 
Then  laden  is  the  boat,  till  more 
May  not  be  added  to  the  store. 

They  pull  for  shore,  and  soon  the  soil 
Is  opulent  with  scaly  spoil ; 
In  glittering  heaps  the  shiny  hoard 
O'er  all  the  yellow  sand  is  pour'd ; 


188  POEMS   OF   THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

And  iiot  the  wealth  of  Indian  mines, 
Dug  deep  where  never  sunbeam  shines, 
So  fair,  so  gorgeous  to  behold 
As  this  rich  spoil  of  blue  and  gold. 

SMELT-FISHING.    (Osmerus  eperlanus.) 

rpHOUGH  keen  the  blast  sweeps  free  and  wide, 

With  blood  half  frozen  in  his  vein, 
The  fisher,  o'er  the  icy  tide, 

Heeds  neither  pelting  hail  nor  rain. 
With  eye  intent  upon  his  task 

He  toileth  all  the  winter  day, 
And  soon  the  clear  transparent  ice 

Is  glittering  with  silver  prey. 

And  in  the  autumn's  latest  time, 

When  first  the  streams  run  icy-cold ; 
In  Indian  summer's  ruddy  prime, 

When  maple  leaves  are  touch'd  with  gold, 
And  all  the  dim  and  smoky  air 
Tempers  the  sunshine's  steady  glare, — 
Then  up  the  salty  tides  that  flow 

And  ebb  along  the  river-shore, 
With  silken  line  and  tapering  rod 

He  loves  the  waters  to  explore, 
And  take  the  sheeny  smelt  that  gleam 
Athwart  the  ripples  of  the  stream. 
Then  oft  to  city  wharf  and  pier 

The  youthful  angler  makes  resort, 
Rejoicing  in  the  pastime  dear, 

Charm'd  with  the  well-rewarded  sport. 

In  winter  days  the  frozen  bajrs 

Are  whiten'd  with  the  fisher's  tent, 
Like  scene  of  war,  when  white  and  far 

Outspreads  the  pitch'd  encampment. 
Then  blithely  rings  the  skater's  steel, 

As  round  in  circling  sweep  he  flies, 
Tending  his  lines,  and  prompt  to  snatch 

From  air-hole  his  resplendent  prize. 


III. A«   K-BASS    FISIIINi;     IN     WKSTKKN    STKKAM*.      189 


lil.ACK  BASS  FISHING  IN  WESTKKN  STREAMS. 

TN  Western  rivers  dark  and  deep 
That  How  thro'  open  prairie  land, 

Pa-t  sandy  blnft  and  wooded  steep, 
Thro'  solemn  forests  lone  and  grand, 

The  dusky  black  bass  float  and  swim, 

Or  o'er  the  placid  surface  skim. 

In  shallows  of  the  river-reach 

Where  rock  and  pebbles  chafe  the  tide, 

Where  o'er  white  gravel  and  the  sand 
The  rushing  waters  foam  and  glide, 

There  oft  the  angler  with  his  fly 

Takes  the  black  rovers  where  they  lie. 

But  often  in  the  middle  deeps 
Where  fathomless  the  water  sleeps, 

Or  where  some  stony  dam  or  pier, 
Obstructs  the  currents'  swift  career, 

There  oft  the  struggling,  finny  spoil 

Rewards  the  angler's  patient  toil. 


THE   STURGEON.     (Acipenser  sturio.) 

\\"  HERE  the  broad  Hudson  graceful  sweeps 

Along  its  fair,  romantic  shores; 
Where  past  its  western,  wooded  bluffs 

And  frowning  Palisades  it  pours; 
And  upward  where  the  narrowing  stream 

Is  girdled  by  the  embracing  bank; 
Far  upward  where  the  tufted  woods 

Umbrageous  gather,  rank  on  rank, 
And  downward  where  its  outlet  yields 

Its  generous  tribute  to  the  deep, 
Tin-  white-scal'd  sturgeons  glide  or  leap; 

A  hard-sought  prize  to  net  or  spear, 
Wherever  they  urge  their  free  career. 


190  POEMS   OF  THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

Up  the  wide  Sound,  and  far  as  trend 
The  rocks  that  hem  New  England's  coast ; 

Up  the  Maine  rivers,  broad  and  deep, 
Where  boiling  tides  are  ever  tost, 

The  silver-spangled  sturgeon  roam 
In  the  fresh  tides  or  salty  foam. 

And  often  gazing  o'er  the  main 

Where  the  Atlantic  billows  break ; 
O'er  that  illimitable  plain 

I  see  them  their  mad  gambols  make ; 
Now  swiftly  shooting  o'er  the  surge, 

Now  leaping  upward,  each  its  length, 
In  course  eccentric  on  they  urge 

With  matchless  speed,  surpassing  strength. 
The  billows  brighten  where  they  leap, 

The  spray  flies  upward,  white  and  high, 
Then  sudden  to  abysses  deep 

They  settle,  lost  to  human  eye. 

Far,  far  along  thy  dangerous  edge, 

O  Maine,  with  reefs  and  rocks  beset, 
Lin'd  with  the  seaweed  and  the  sedge, 

Where  ceaseless  the  salt  surges  fret, 
I've  seen  the  gleaming  sturgeon  play 

Along  old  Ocean's  endless  way. 
And  where  thy  rivers  pour  their  tide, 

Penobscot,  Androscoggin  wide, 
I've  seen  far  up  the  drooping  woods 

The  sturgeon  flashing  in  the  floods. 

Ah  me!  how  pleasant  to  recall 

Those  college  days,  so  distant  wide, 
When  you  and  I,  dear  Longfellow, 

Wander'd  in  converse,  side  by  side ; 
Wander'd  'neath  Brunswick's  piny  woods, 

Or  by  the  Androscoggin's  floods; 
Now  pausing  by  the  way  to  note 

The  pigeon  flocks  above  us  float, 
Or  catch  the  sudden  flash  and  leap 

Qf  the  great  sturgeons  o'er  the  deep! 


1M<  KBREL-FI8HING    THROUGH    Till:   ICE.  191 

Though  Time  has  long  inscrib'd  thy  name 

High  on  the  scroll  of  poet's  fame, 
Yet  well  1  know  thy  memory  strays 

Far  back  to  scenes  of  vanish'd  days, — 
To  Brunswick  woods  and  waters  blue, 

When  we  were  young  and  life  was  new. 
Though  Time  has  sprinkled  on  our  brows 

His  white,  inevitable  snows, 
Slill  in  our  hearts  the.  life-tides  pour 

As  warm,  as  loving  as  of  yore. 


PICKEREL  FISHING  THROUGH  THE  ICE. 

(Esox  lucius.) 

TX7IDE  o'er  the  lake's  transparent  plain 

An  adamantine  floor  is  laid, 
A  pure  and  crystalline  domain 
By  unseen  frosty  fingers  made; 
So  firm,  a  marching  host  might  pass 
With  ponderous  guns  the  bridge  of  glass; 
And  here  the  ice-boats  skim  or  beat 
Swifter  than  yachter's  sailing  fleet, 
And,  pois'd  upon  the  gleamy  steel, 
The  flying  skaters  whirl  and  wheel. 

The  eeler  comes  with  trident  spear 
To  thrust  with  keen  and  barbed  grain ; 
The  pickerel-fishers  gather  near, 
To  hew  with  axe  the  crystal  plain, 
And  there  with  baited  lines  all  day, 
On  circling  skates  they  watch  for  prey. 
A  hundred  flapping  tents  arise 
To  screen  them  from  the  blast  that  blows, 
And  the  white  lake  with  canopies 
Like  warlike  vast  encampment  shows. 

It  is  a  fair,  secluded  spot 
Hid  in  dense  woods  of  evergreen, 
A  frozen  lake  of  lucent  glass 
Friug'd  with  its  sombre  forest  screen ; 


192  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 

The  larch,  the  hemlock,  and  the  pine 
And  spicy  cedars  hem  it  round, 
In  whose  thick,  interlacing  shades 
The  speckled  partridges  abound. 
In  summer  'tis  a  sparkling  lake 
With  golden  sands  and  purple  deeps, 
Where  skims  the  yellow  pickerel, 
Or  through  profoundest  waters  sweeps. 

But  when  the  winter  days  are  come 
And  Christmas  carols  thrill  the  air, 
And  snows  besiege  the  farmer's  home, 
And  pallid  woods  stretch  bleak  and  bare, 
And  spreads  a  solid  icy  floor 
Across  the  lake  from  shore  to  shore, 
Then  joyous  troops  delight  to  wheel 
And  whirl  upon  the  glancing  steel, 
To  build  great  bonfires  to  illume 
The  scene  when  falls  the  evening  gloom, 
From  dawn  till  midnight  hour  to  make 
Wild  frolic  o'er  the  crackling  lake, 
To  hew  deep  chasms  in  the  clear, 
Pure  ice  for  passage  of  the  spear, 
Or  set  the  fish-lines  to  ensnare 
The  lurking  pickerel  from  his  lair. 

A  jocund  and  a  youthful  crowd 
Assemble  there  with  laughter  loud; 
Bright  golden  locks  o'er  brows  of  snow, 
Cheeks  with  the  roses'  scarlet  glow, 
And  darker  tresses  flowing  down 
Like  torrents  from  the  mountain's  crown; 
Eyes  gleaming  like  the  diamond  spark, 
Or  star-beam  flashing  thro'  the  dark ; 
These  gather  all  in  mad  delight, 
To  see  the  finny  treasures  bright 
That  flash  and  glitter  as  they  leap 
From  dim  abysses  of  the  deep. 

O  riotous,  glad  winter-time, 
With  brow  of  snow  and  locks  of  rime. 
With  sifting  drift  on  garden-rail, 
With  woods  resplendent  with  the  hail, 


BLATKIISIl.  193 

With  shapeless  snow-henps  o'er  the  ground, 
And  roofs  with  pearl  tiaras  orown'd, 
And  house-eaves  thick  with  jewels  set, 
Bright  as  the  polish'd  bayonet; 
With  wreaths  the  old  walls  to  adorn, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  dance  till  morn; 
With  silver  tinkle  of  the  bells 
O'er  country  roads,  thro'  sylvan  dells; 
With  skater's  shout  and  singer's  si  ruin 
Far  o'er  the  wide,  rejoicing  plain; — 
Ah!  with  all  these  no  festival 
So  gay  in  summer's  gilded  hall! 


BLACKFISII.     (Tauloga  Americana.) 

"^yHEREVEIl  by  extended  shore 

The  rough  rocks  sow  the  salty  deep, 
Wherever  kelp  and  seaweed  cling 
And  crab  and  starfish  crawl  and  creep, 
The  blackfish  find  a  lurking  place, 
Deep  in  the  waters  at  their  base. 

\Vhere  sunken  ledges  pave  the  floor 
Of  ocean  with  granitic  blocks, 
Where  the  projecting  reef  throws  out 
Its  bulwark  of  the  craggy  rocks, 
The  anglers  for  the  blackfish  stand 
On  summit  of  the  sca-wash'd  crag, 
And  with  the  slender  fishing- wand 
The  blackfish  from  their  caverns  drag. 

Where'er  a  hapless  bark  hath  met 
Its  fate  along  the  dangerous  shore, 
And  with  its  broken  ribs  and  keel 
Lies  rotting  on  the  ocean  floor, 
There  where  the  clinging  shell  and  weed 
Gather,  and  barnacles  abound, 
The  blackfish  seeking  out  their  feed 
In  numbers  by  the  hook  are  found. 
13 


194  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   A1STD    GUK. 


THE  SHARK.     (Carcliarias  glaucus.) 

HPHE  seaboy  sailing  o'er  the  main, 

Far-gazing  o'er  the  watery  plain, 
Sees  oft  the  black  fin  of  the  shark 
Pursuing  his  careering  bark. 
Quick  thro'  the  ship  the  joyful  news 

Like  wildfire  runs  from  stem  to  stern; 
From  bulwark  high,  from  sloping  mast, 

Leeward  all  eager  glances  turn. 
The  master  seeks  the  massive  hook 

With  iron  chain  and  hempen  line, 
And  soon  the  baited  snare  is  out 

Far  trailing  o'er  the  seething  brine. 

The  greedy  monster  with  a  plunge 

Rushes  to  seize  the  tempting  bait, 
And,  rolling  on  his  dusky  back, 

Gorges  the  hook  and  finds  his  fate. 
Away  in  madden'd  haste  he  flies, 

Lashing  the  wave  with  forked  tail, 
But  'gainst  a  score  of  tugging  hands 

His  desperate  strength  may  naught  avail. 
Soon  bleeding  on  the  deck,  a  prize, 
The  ruthless  ocean  tyrant  dies. 
'Tis  said  in  Indian  seas  remote, 

Off  the  white  reef  of  Bengal  Bay, 
Cruises  the  great  man-eater  shark, 

Hungry  and  keen  for  human  prey. 
There  Indian  damsels  dread  to  plunge 

In  combing  surf  and  curling  wave, 
Fearing  that  terror  of  sharp  teeth, 

That  jaw  remorseless  as  the  grave. 
But  brave  the  manly  diver  dares 

With  sharpen'd  creese  to  meet  his  foe, 
And,  plung'd  beneath  the  lurking  fiend, 

Stabs  till  the  tides  with  slaughter  flow. 
So  the  swart  diver  for  the  pearl, 

Taught  from  his  youth  to  search  the  deeps, 
With  keen  blade  meets  him  in  the  surf, 

And  slays  him  wheresoe'er  he  sweeps. 


SPECKLED   BASS   AT   LAKK    I'KIMN,    MINN.  195 


HAKE.     (Phycis  furgatus.) 

(  yFAl  sandy  bar  and  rocky  floor 

That  pave  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  kelp  and  dulse  and  seaweeds  Haunt 
Their  garlands  where  the  currents  sweep; 
Where  rove  the  haddock  and  the  cod, 
The  shcepshcad  and  the  silvery  bass, 
The  dark  hake  schools  rejoice  to  feed 
In  pastures  of  the  salty  grass. 

The  fisher  in  his  rocking  boat 
From  reef  to  reef  pursues  his  prey, 
Now  in  abysses  dark  and  deep, 
And  now  in  shoaling  cove  and  bay, 
But  best  the  sport  when  night  her  veil 
Of  shadows  o'er  the  ocean  spreads, 
And  the  red  moon  along  the  seas 
Her  glimmering  effulgence  sheds. 

Then  when  the  drowsy  breezes  fold 
Their  wings  and  swoon  away  in  sleep, 
When  not  a  milling  ripple  curls 
The  motionless  undimpled  deep; 
When  drops  the  moon  her  golden  bridge 
Of  light  athwart  the  level  main, 
And  heavenly  constellations  burn, 
Stars  flood  the  night  with  twinkling  rain, — 
Tis  then  the  fisher's  toilsome  trade 
Is  with  abounding  spoil  repaid. 


SPECKLED  BASS  AT  LAKE  PEPIN,  MINN. 

TT  is  a  fair,  pellucid  lake, 

With  towering  bluffs  encompass'd  round, 
Heavy  with  woods  of  fir  and  pine, 
With  gloomy  cedar  fo rests  crown'd; 
And  here  in  some  secluded  haunt, 
Afar  from  human  care  and  vice, 
The  lover  of  the  woods  and  streams 
Seeks  out  an  earthly  paradise. 


196  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   ASTD   GUN". 

Sweet  falls  the  summer  sunshine  here, 
The  morning  with  its  dewy  flush; 
The  breezeless,  calm,  unclouded  noon, 
The  glimmering  twilight  with  its  hush. 
Spring  here  its  earliest  violet  drops, 
Summer  its  rosy  garland  weaves, 
Brown  Autumn  comes  with  purple  grapes, 
Winter  thro'  all  the  woodland  grieves, 
Yet  ever  in  this  pastoral  vale 
Content  and  endless  peace  prevail. 

The  tenants  of  the  crystal  deeps 
The  watery  pastures  rove  at  will, 
Gleaming  with  gold,  and  ray'd  and  strip'd 
With  all  the  colors  that  distil 
Thro'  the  curv'd  rainbow,  hung  on  high, 
A  painted  arch  across  the  sky, 
And  here  the  trout-schools,  and  the  pike 
With  jaw  immense  and  mottled  side, 
Swim  free  and  far,  and  muscalonge 
Cleaving  like  Indian  shaft  the  tide. 

Most  lovely  of  all  finny  tribes 
That  haunt  the  pool  or  skim  the  foam, 
The  speckled  bass,  in  armor  bright 
Like  mail-clad  knight,  delights  to  roam ; 
Studded  with  gorgeous  spots  of  brown, 
With  scales  of  azure,  gold,  and  green ; 
With  opal  stripe  and  lucent  bars, 
No  fish  more  beautiful  is  seen. 

Where  far  the  sandy  point  juts  out 
They  churn  the  waters  till  they  boil. 
Swift-darting  to  and  fro,  they  urge 
Their  sports,  and  mingle  in  turmoil. 
But  when  the  evening  shades  pervade 
And  dim  in  shadow  rests  the  lake, 
In  deepest  caverns  of  the  pool 
Their  cool  secluded  homes  they  make; 
Yet  even  there  the  angler's  fly, 
Or  mimic  minnow  deftly  spun, 
Will  tempt  them  from  the  azure  deeps, 
Decoy  them,  'till  the  prize  is  won. 


TIIK  KIXOFISH.  197 


Till-;  KINGFISH.     (Menticimts  nebulosus.) 

"The  kingfish,  or  whiting  as  it  is  called  along  the  Southern 
coast,  is  the  gamiest  fish  for  its  size  known  to  the  angler." — 
L.  O.  VANDOREN,  in  "  Fishes  oftlie  East  Atlantic  Coast" 

OFF  where  the  slender  light-house  lifts, 

Like  sheeted  ghost,  above  the  surge, 
Casting  its  warning  flames  at  night 

Far  to  the  dim  horizon's  verge 
Round  sunken  reef  and  hidden  rock 

Where  shells  and  sands  inlay  the  floor 
Of  ocean,  there  the  kingflsh  glide 

And  the  sea's  secret  worlds  explore. 

Resplendent  with  their  russet  head, 

Their  silvery  and  azure  sides, 
They  dart  like  meteoric  showers 

Across  ^he  salt  tumultuous  tides. 
There  anchor'd,  when  the  tides  are  low 

And  first  the  young  flood  bubbling  flows, 
The  fisher  far  the  spinning  line 

Deep  down  with  trustful  ardor  throws. 

Seek  them  when  roars  the  tumbling  surf  . 

Along  the  inlets  of  the  shore, 
When  swift  between  the  sandy  banks 

The  tides  thro'  deepen'd  channels  pour. 
Go  where  Fire  Island  opes  its  gate 

To  let  the  boisterous  waters  in, 
Or  where  the  surf  at  Barnegat 

Thunders  in  hoarse,  incessant  din, 
And  there  within  the  Inlet-jaws 

When  deep  and  darksome  flows  the  tide, 
Feeding  in  schools  innumerous 

The  greedy  kingfish  gleam  and  glide. 

The  old  colonial  times 

Num'd  this  of  all  the  fish  the  king; 
The  noblest,  gamiest  of  the  tribes 

O'er  ocean  wandering. 


198  POEMS   OF   THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

It  glows  with  evanescent  tints 

Of  silvery  hue  and  shades  of  gray, 
With  sides  of  bluish  white,  and  fins 

O'er  which  all  rainbow  glories  play. 
He  is  an  eager  fish  to  bite 

At  sand- worm  or  at  sheddercrab; 
And  when  death-stung  by  barbed  stab, 

Heroic,  stubborn,  full  of  fight, 
Quick  to  the  bottom  depths  he  flies, 

Then  dashes  left  and  right, 
Nor  yields  submissive  till  he  dies. 

At  every  wharf  and  pier  and  ledge 

The  anglers  haste  for  perfect  sport; 
Along  the  Battery's  grassy  edge 

And  by  the  ancient  fort, 
Up  the  North  River  and  the  East, 
Manhattan  gather'd  to  the  feast. 

A  century  since  those  times  hath  past, 
And  when  the  British  standard  fell 

From  fortress  wall  and  frigate  mast, 
Those  noble  fish  all  fled  as  well, 

And  few  remain  by  stream  and  bay 

The  angler's  efforts  to  repay. 
Yet  far  along  the  Jersey  shore, 

Off  Sandy  Hook,  Long  Island  Sound, 
And  where  the  Southern  surges  pour, 

The  king-fish  still  abound. 

At  inlet  of  the  Barnegat, 

Off  Long  Branch'  sunny  cliff  and  cove, 
O'er  hidden  bar  and  muddy  flat, 

Their  swarming  myriads  pour; 
And  far  adown  the  Southern  coast 

Where  Chesapeake  bays  expand, 
And  where  Cape  Hatteras  tides  are  tost, 

And  Florida's  green  strand, 
They  skim  the  wave,  they  plunge  the  deep, 
And  through  the  great  Gulf  onward  sweep, 


ON     I.ON<;     ISLAND    SOUND.  199 


PORGEE.     (Pagrus  argyrops.) 

TN  all  the  tides  that  sweep  the  coast 

By  Labrador's  remotest  shores, 
Far  down  to  where  the  Chesapeake 

Its  ailluent  flood  to  ocean  pours, 
The  porgees,  bright  with  silvery  scales, 

In  numberless  great  schools  abound, 
At  river-mouth,  in  open  bay, 

In  estuary  and  in  sound. 

Where  foams  the  flood-tide  swift  and  clear 

O'er  sands  and  shoals  of  ocean's  bed, 
Their  flashing,  shifting  multitudes, 

Quick  darting  to  and  fro,  are  spread; 
Where  whirls  and  wheeling  eddies  spin 

O'er  weedy  rock  and  hidden  ledge, 
Their  pearly  legions  mustering  fill 

With  swarming  life  the  channel-edge. 

Rough  ocean  coasts  and  open  seas, 

Where  cruise  piratic  blue-fish  foes, 
They  soon  forsake  for  cove  and  bay, 

And  where  the  shallow  river  flows. 
Yet  there  the  fisher  still  pursues; 

And  anchor'd  yacht  and  dory  boat, 
And  pier  and  wharf  with  anglers  liu'd, 

Thin  out  their  schools  where'er  they  float. 


ON  LONG  ISLAND  SOUND. 

T  WANDER  daily  by  thy  shore, 

Thy  rocky  shore,  Long  Island  Sound, 
And  in  my  little  boat  explore 

The  secrets  of  thy  depths  profound. 
I  trace  the  great  brown  rocks  far  down, 

O'er  which  the  salt  tides  ebb  and  flow, 
Encrusted  with  their  rugged  shells, 

Rocks  where  the  ribbou'd  seaweeds  grow ; 


200  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

And  there  the  glancing  fish  I  view, 
The  weakfish  and  the  dusky  bass : 

The  bergalls  and  the  blackfish  schools, 
And  silvery  porgees  as  they  pass. 

Fast-anchor'd  in  my  swinging  boat, 

The  welcome  nibble  to  await, 
I  feel  the  sheepshead  at  the  line, 

The  sea- bass  tugging  at  the  bait; 
And  as  I  gaze  across  the  wave 

I  see  the  shining  sturgeon  leap, 
Springing  in  air  with  sudden  flash, 

Then  splashing,  plunging  to  the  deep; 
I  see  the  porpoise  schools  sweep  by, 

In  sportive  gambollings  at  their  play, 
Puffing  and  snorting  as  they  rise, 

Wheeling  and  tumbling  on  their  way ; 
And  never  wearied  is  my  gaze 

As  o'er  the  blue  expanse  it  roams, 
Viewing  the  endless  billows  roll, 

White-crested  with  the  yeasty  foams. 


SPANISH  MACKEREL.     (Scoinberomorm  maculatum.) 

T^THEN  fields  are  green  and  woods  of  June 

Are  vocal  with  the  song-bird's  tune, 
When  willows  lithe,  a  lovely  group, 
Full  foliaged  o'er  the  meadows  droop; 
When  hazels  their  soft  catkins  ope 
By  rivulet  edge  and  grassy  slope, 
Then  swift  those  rovers  of  the  deep 
O'er  all  the  Northern  surges  leap. 
Far  off  the  billows  of  Montauk, 
Above  them  hovering  gull  and  hawk; 
Far  off  the  isles  of  Orient 
Where  the  Sound's  billowy  waves  are  spent, 
And  by  the  rough  New  England  shore 
Where  the  vex'd  tides  incessant  roar, 
Their  gleaming  schools  flash  far  and  wide, 
Disporting  in  the  flowing  tide. 


COMMON     I'M  -KKUEL.  201 

Most  beautiful  in  shape  and  hue 
Of  all  that  swim  the  waters  blue, 
Fairer  than  plumage  of  the  bird 
Or  fur  of  the  wild  forest  herd, 
Remorseless  are  they  as  the  grave 
To  all  the  tenants  of  the  wave; 
No  speed,  no  cunning  may  avail 
When  these  marauders  may  assail. 

But  yet  a  cruel  fate  prepares 
For  them  its  fierce  destructive  snares; 
The  fishers  with  their  swarming  boats 
Spread  out  their  mesh  seines  and  their  floats; 
The  yacht  sweeps  round  them  with  the  sail, 
Or  stoops  the  sea-hawk  in  the  gale, 
While  flashing  squid  and  trailing  line 
Drag  them  reluctant  from  the  brine. 

COMMON   PICKEREL.    (Esox  reticulatus.) 

OEPTEMBER  woods  are  fresh  and  green, 

September  woods  are  bright, 
September's  early  morning  glows 

With  its  encrimsoning  light; 
O'er  upland  slopes  a  dewy  haze 

In  vapory  beauty  clings, 
Soft  as  the  film  that  fancy's  veil 

O'er  earthly  vision  flings. 
Serene  afar  the  purple  cones 

Of  the  Green  Mountain  stand, 
Like  arm'd  and  stalwart  sentinels 

Guarding  a  sleeping  land; 
Serene  and  smooth  (Jhamphiin's  blue  lake 

Spreads  out  its  dimpled  sheet, 
Washing  its  wood-engirdled  shore, 

Bathing  the  mountain  feet. 

In  shallow  cove,  near  grassy  bank, 
The  pickerel-weeds  grow  green  and  rank; 
In  hazel  girded,  crescent  bays 
Sprinkled  with  isles,  an  endless  maze, 


202  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD    AND   GUK. 

The  yellow-tinted  pickerel 
Lie  hidden,  motionless  and  still; 
The  dorsal  fin,  the  forked  tail 

Scarce  stir  the  waters,  clear  as  air, 
But  jaws  are  open  to  assail 

And  glassy  eyes  all  murderous  stare. 
But  when  the  small  fry  of  the  lake, 

The  minnow  and  the  shiner  bright, 
Across  the  limpid  surface  break, 

Shooting  like  pearly  sparks  of  light, 
Then,  as  an  Indian  tiger  grim 
Rends  antler'd  stag  in  jungles  dim, 
So  doth  the  water-tyrant  slay 
The  helpless,  unresisting  prey. 


SEA-BASS.     (Centropristes  nigricanus.} 

TA7IDE  off  Long  Island's  yellow  beach, 

Where  fisher's  plummet  scarce  may  reach, 
Deep-sunken  in  the  depths  of  brine, 
Where  sea-weeds  all  the  rocks  entwine, 
Where  kelp  its  beaded  ribbon  flings, 
And  the  black  mussel  closely  clings, 
And  sea-dulse  their  long  tresses  flaunt, 
There  the  dark  sea-bass  makes  his  haunt. 

And  where  the  Sound  outspreads  its  plain 
Extended  to  the  tossing  main, 
Off  Orient  Point  and  green  Plum  Isle, 
Where  the  Gut  currents  chafing  boil, 
Where  Gardiner's  Island  and  Gull-rocks 
Breast  and  repel  the  ocean  shocks, 
There  goes  the  fisher  with  his  boat 
Above  the  sunken  ledge  to  float, 
Skilful  to  take  with  baited  line 
The  sable  sea-bass  of  the  brine. 

I  love  to  stand  on  rocks  that  throw 
Deep  shadows  on  the  tides  below, 
And  note  the  varied  life  that  sweeps 
The  salt  abysses  of  the  deeps; 


THK    SEAL   AT   LABRADOR. 

The  sword-fish  and  the  spouting  whale, 
The  porpoise  tumbling  in  the  gale, 
The  dolphin  and  the  grampus  dark, 
The  sharp-finn'd,  man-devouring  shark, 
The  blue-fish  leaping  as  they  pass, 
The  strip'd  and  pearl  enamell'd  bass; 
The  crab,  the  shrimp,  the  mussel-shell, 
The  sea-egg  with  its  thorny  cell, 
The  moss  to  slippery  rock  that  clings, 
The  dulse,  the  sea-weed  with  its  rings, 
Its  emerald  garlands  drifting  wide, 
Rising  and  falling  with  the  tide, — 
All  these,  the  wealth  of  waters  blue, 
Are  ever  wondrous,  ever  new. 


THE  SEAL    AT  LABRADOR. 

(Oalocephalua  nlulinus.) 

A  THWART  the  river's  brimming  Hood, 

Behold  the  tumbling  seals  at  play! 
Now  diving  in  the  seething  deeps 
Now  dashing  o'er  the  boiling  spray; 
Their  round  black  heads  now  rise,  now  sink, 
Still  watchful  of  the  rifle's  aim, 
Still  mindful  of  the  birch  canoe 
And  Indian  lurking  for  his  game. 

Perch'd  on  some  brown,  weed-tangled  rock 
They  bask  luxurious  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  salmon's  flashing  leap,      • 
As  thro'  the  surging  tides  they  run; 
And  here  they  teach  their  young  the  art 
To  swim,  to  dive,  to  clutch  the  prey, 
The  art  the  salmon  to  o'ertake, 
The  salmon  of  the  watery  way. 

The  finny  tribes,  with  bright  scales  lin'd, 
Painted  beyond  the  limner's  art, 
In  meteoric  brightness  flash, 
With  lightning  speed  the  waters  part; 
Yet  swifter,  with  rapacious  jaws, 


204:  POEMS   OF    THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

The  plunging  seals  their  victims  snare. 
Then  bear  them  to  some  darkling  pool, 
With  their  swart  cubs  the  spoil  to  share. 
Stout  sealing  vessel !  that  doth  spread 
In  stormy  seas  the  venturous  sail, 
Battling  with  walrus  and  with  seal, 
And  grappling  with  the  mighty  whale, 
I  love  o'er  frozen  realms  remote 
To  follow  thee  where'er  you  float. 


SHEEPSHEAD.    (Sparus  ovis.) 


inlet  of  the  Barnegat 
Opes  to  the  tumbling  surf  its  gate 
When  the  young-flood  tide  washes  in 
Limpet  and  crab,  a  welcome  bait; 
Then  where  the  affluent  current  pours 
The  deepest  o'er  its  muddy  floors, 
The  greedy  sheepshead  hidden  lie, 
To  seize  whatever  may  float  by. 
And  there  in  little  boat  that  swings 
At  anchor  in  the  flowing  tides, 
The  angler  line  and  plummet  flings, 
And  takes  the  robber  when  he  wills. 

Patient  and  motionless  he  waits, 
Unmindful  of  all  meaner  prize; 
His  hand  upon  the  humming  line, 
Fix'd  on  his  task  his  eager  eyes; 
The  flashing  blue-fish  may  rush  by, 
The  pig-like  porpoise  tumble  near, 
The  dusky  shark  may  lash  the  foam, 
And  sturgeon  from  the  wave  leap  clear. 
He  heeds  not  —  but  awaits  the  jerk 
Of  sheep's-head,  deep  below  that  lurk. 

Far  down  the  Bay,  where  salter  tides 
And  stronger,  fiercer  current  pours, 
Where  Absecum  its  inlet  opes 
Between  its  shelving,  sandy  shores,  — 


WHITK-FISH   OF  THE   NORTHERN    LAKES.  205 

There,  too,  the  fishermen  resort, 
For  pleasant  pastime,  noble  sport, 
And  pluck  triumphant  from  the  deeps 
The  treasure  that  old  ocean  keeps. 


WHITE-FISH  OF  THE  NORTHERN    LAKES. 

(Coregomis  albus.) 

"COAMING  afar  o'er  Erie  Lake 

The  white-fish  its  fair  surface  break; 
In  countless  myriads  they  explore 
The  windings  of  the  shelving  shore. 
Now  seek  some  green  sequester'd  cove, 
Now  off  some  beetling  headland  rove, 
Now  lurk  where  emptying  rivers  bear 
The  generous  food  the  fish  may  share, 
Seeking  the  bounteous  gifts  brought  down 
From  distant  woods  and  pastures  brown. 

Anon  they  seek  the  middle  deeps 
Where  fathomless  the  water  sleeps, 
Perchance  to  fly  from  fierce  pursuit 
Of  the  great  trout  that  o'er  it  shoot, 
Or  from  the  muscanonge's  chase, 
The  greedy  tyrants  of  their  nice. 

The  fisher  stakes  his  net  and  weir, 
The  persecuted  shoals  to  snare; 
The  seiner  runs  his  net  around 
Where'er  the  glittering  scales  abound: 
They  drag  them  to  the  neighboring  shore. 
Where  sands  are  brighten'd  with  their  store. 
Yet,  spite  of  foe  and  net  and  seine, 
Unnumber'd  myriads  still  remain; 
So  countless  and  prolific  they, 
Scarce  may  their  glcamy  millions  fail, 
Swarming  in  lake,  and  cove,  and  bay, 
In  sleepy  calm  and  howling  gale. 


206  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 


THE  SWORD  FISH.      (Xipldas  gladius.) 

/^\FF  where  Nantucket's  sandy  isle 

Juts  seaward  with  the  reef  and  bar, 
And  where  the  Martha  Vineyard  rocks 
Baffle  the  surges  fierce  and  far, 
The  hardy  fishers  launch  the  boat 
With  courage  that  no  perils  daunt, 
To  grapple  with  the  dangerous  foe, 
The  sword-fish,  in  his  ocean  haunt. 

Skilful  are  they  with  sharp  harpoon, 
Skilful  to  wield  the  deadly  lance; 
For  of  ttimes  have  they  o'er  the  seas, 
Where  waves  tumultuously  dance, 
Pursued  in  open  boat  the  whale, 
Though  typhoon  threaten'd  with  the  gale. 

Sailing  the  billows  leagues  from  shore 
With  glass  th'  horizon's  rim  they  sweep, 
And  where  the  foamy  surges  pour 
They  know  the  sword-fish  play  and  leap; 
Steady  the  helmsman  guides  the  way, 
High  on  the  prow  the  spearman  stands 
With  arm  uprais'd  and  prompt  to  throw 
The  harpoon,  quivering  in  his  hands. 
And  when  the  heedless  fish  are  near, 
So  near  they  brush  the  vessel's  side, 
He  flings  the  prong'd  death  dealing  spear, 
Its  very  shaft  with  crimson  dyed. 

Now  comes  the  danger,  for  the  prey, 
Madden'd  with  pain,  may  strike  the  boat, 
Thro'  plank  may  thrust  its  bony  way, 
So  the  poor  craft  may  scarcely  float. 
An  oaken  cask,  with  frantic  haste, 
The  spearman  casts  into  the  main, 
And  so  the  wounded  creatures  waste 
On  its  tough  sides  their  strength  in  vain, 
Till  sick,  exhausted  with  the  strife, 
They  end  the  struggle  with  their  life. 


HAULING    OF   THK    SKINK.  207 

HAULING    OF  THE  SEINE. 

AS   PRACTISED   ON   THK   EASTERN   COAST   OP   LONG    ISLAND. 

rPHK  sea  is  like  a  mirror — scarce  a  crest 

Of  the  white  froth-foam  gleams  across  its  breast; 
And  like  an  infant's  bosom,  fast  asleep, 
Scarce  sinks,  scarce  swells  the  smooth  breast  of  the  deep, — 
So  smooth  that  scarce  the  shell-embroider'd  sand 
Is  ruflled  by  the  waves  that  kiss  the  strand; 
So  smooth,  that  scarce  the  green  sea- weed  that  grows 
In  shallow  cove  its  ribbons  may  unclose; 
So  smooth  that  scarce  the  salty  kelps  may  shake 
Their  beaded  garlands  where  no  ripples  break. 

Now  good  the  time  to  lift  the  close-mesh'd  seine, 
Outspread  along  the  sandy  sea-beach  plain, 
Men  coil  it  careful  in  the  surf -boat's  stern, 
Cork-line  and  lead-line  all  complete  in  turn. 

Now  haste,  bold  fishers,  for  a  gleaming  line 
Of  flashing  fins  doth  sweep  across  the  brine; 
And  shows  where  bright  the  treasures  of  the  deep, 
Swimming  and  skimming,  in  gay  frolics  leap. 

Now  run  your  shapely  shallops  to  the  edge 
Where  meet  the  shore- waves  and  the  yellow  sedge; 
Spring  to  your  seats,  ply  hard  the  bending  oar 
Till  the  flat  keel  recedeth  from  the  shore, 
While  the  skill'd  helmsman  with  long  sweep  doth  steer 
Straight  on  the  fish  school,  with  exulting  cheer. 

Now  the  twin  boats  approach  the  unwary  school ; 
Pull  well  together,  men,  be  cautious,  cool; 
Let  each  boat  take  its  seine-end,  to  surround 
With  circling  sweep  the  school,  in  hush  profound; 
Then,  when  the  drifting  corks  united  meet, 
And  myriad  flashing  tails  the  surface  beat, 
Draw  well  together,  till  collected  shine 
In  one  live  mass  the  treasures  of  the  brine. 

Then  with  your  hand-seines  fill  each  ample  boat 
Till  with  the  sumptuous  spoil  it  scarce  may  float; 


208  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUtf. 

Then  to  the  shore  with  manful  oar- strokes  toil 
Till  all  the  sandy  beach  is  spread  with  spoil, 
Till  all  the  level  beach  with  glistening  prey 
Twinkles  and  flashes  in  the  blaze  of  day, 
Till  well  the  fisher's  hard  and  manly  trade 
With  opulent  reward  is  rich  repaid. 


THE  BROOKSIDE  AND  THE    HILLSIDE. 

TT  was  a  leafy  haunt  where  oft  I  came 

To  track  the  wilful  twistings  of  a  brook 
That  ran  thro'  grove  and  mead;  now  creeping  slow 
And  sluggish,  half  asleep  amid  its  shores, 
Now  slipping  with  an  endless  prattle  down 
Its  sloping  floor  of  pebbles  and  white  sands. 

The  stream  beneath  a  bridge  had  made  a  pool 
Of  dusky  water,  friug'd  with  sedge  and  reeds, 
Where  water-lilies  their  white  vases  oped 
Each  with  a  gem  of  gold  within  its  heart. 
On  the  slant  bank  the  wild  rosebushes  grew, 
All  their  pink  petals  to  the  view  disclos'd, 
Their  images  reflected  in  the  wave. 
Here  flew  the  bright  kingfishers,  blue  and  gold, 
Following  in  flight  the  windings  of  the  stream; 
And  here  a  bird  with  snow-white,  downy  breast, 
The  water-ouzel,  dipping  its  black  bill, 
Perch'd  on  a  mossy  stone,  or  skimm'd  the  wave. 

It  was  a  fairy  scene  to  charm  the  eye ! 
Down  the  swift  stream,  amid  the  shadows  dusk, 
The  gnat-swarms  hover'd,  and  the  minnows  bright 
Twinkled  and  glisten'd  in  the  sweeping  tide, 
And  leap'd  the  trout  where  insects  sought  the  wave. 
The  sweetest  song-birds  from  each  bending  twig 
And  coppice  pour'd  their  souls  in  liquid  strains; 
The  heavens  above  were  sunshine,  and  the  earth 
Rejoic'd  in  full  fruition  of  the  day; 
Delicious  were  the  bird-hymns,  and  most  sweet 
The  trickling  murmur  of  the  running  brook. 


THE   COLUMBIA    RIVER.  209 

We  left  the  brookside,  pass'd  the  bowering  lanes, 
Aud  on  the  brow  of  hillock  saw  beneath 
The  open  plains  with  rural  farms  overspread, 
And  dotted  thick  with  roofs  of  cottages. 
And  here  were  seen  the  yellow  sands,  the  cove, 
Tin-  rounded  rocks  with  clinging  sea-weeds  drap'd, 
The  white  capp'd  waves,  the  brown  sails  on  the  bay, 
The  drying  nets  o'er  white  sea-sands  outspread. 

There  was  a  drowsy  hum  of  bees  in  air, 
Flitting  from  bank  to  bank,  from  bush  to  bush, 
To  sip  the  honey 'd  nectar  of  the  llowers; 
Now  darting  thro'  the  honeysuckle  shoots, 
Now  o'er  the  meadows,  white  with  clover-blooms; 
While  on  their  purple  plumes  the  humming-birds 
Like  winged  flowerets  darted  down  the  air; 
Aud  all  was  blissful  calm  and  slumberous  peace, 
And  trills  of  bird  and  murmur  of  the  brook. 

Where  the  white  sunshine  thro'  green  branches  peeps, 
And  the  blue  sky  thro'  tufted  tree-tops  shows, 
And  leaves  that  curtain  the  path-openings 
Of  forest  sanctuaries  arc  astir, 
Then  pleasant  'tis  beneath  that  verdant  arch 
To  enter  and  explore  the  depth  of  woods. 


HIE   COLUMBIA   RIVER. 

r\  GRAND  Columbia,  River  of  the  West; 

O  noble  stream,  for  ages  flowing  on 
Thro'  shores  unknown  to  civili/ed  man! 
Thy  rough  head-waters  rise  'mid  rocky  mounts, 
Where  torrents  of  the  melting  snow  down  pour 
From  crag  and  cliff  and  rugged  mountain  peak, 
Winding  thro'  desert  plains  and  savage  wastes; 
\Vherc-  springs  no  rustling  grass  or  leafy  shrub, 
And  yet  anon  it  runs  its  joyous  way, 
Thro'  pleasant  valleys  and  soft,  llowery  plains, 
'Mill  bending  groves  and  prairies  measureless. 
Far  o'er  those  plains  the  Indian  horseman  rides, 
Lashing  his  steed  in  desperate  pursuit 
14 


210  POEMS   OF   THE   HOD   AND   GUN. 

Of  the  wild  buffalo  and  bounding  deer, 
Or  the  fleet  antelope  that  scours  the  plain. 

Free  is  the  hunter  of  the  plains  and  mounts, 
A  gallant  rider,  tall,  athletic,  brave; 
His  only  food  the  great  game  of  the  wilds; 
Ready  for  feast  or  battle;  prompt  to  meet 
A  hostile  tribe  with  war-club  and  with  spear. 
But  the  poor  dwellers  at  Columbia's  mouth — 
The  seashore  Chinooks — are  a  peaceful  race, 
Idling  inert  their  sluggish  lives  away, 
Their  food  the  salmon-shoals  or  herbs  and  roots. 

There  at  the  river's  mouth  spread  shallow  bays, 
With  rocky  shores  all  fring'd  with  marshy  isles, 
Where  droop  the  willow  groves  and  poplar  woods. 
Ofttimes  those  rocky  cliffs  give  place  to  plains 
Where  wave  majestic  groves  of  pluming  pines. 
Far  up  the  great  Columbian  valley  spreads, 
'Twixt  ridges  parallel  of  soaring  mounts, 
And  thro'  its  heart  a  bounteous  river  flows, 
Slow  wandering,  from  regions  unexplor'd. 

Far  up  Columbia's  upper  stream  sweet  airs, 
Soft,  temperate  breezes,  blow  with  gentle  sweep; 
While  vigorous  winters,  sultry  summer  heats, 
Across  the  eastern  ridge  of  rocky  mounts 
Prevail,  where  snows  eternal  crown  the  peaks. 
Yet  o'er  the  western  valleys  and  the  plains 
Serener  clime  is  found,  and  nightly  dews 
And  humid  fogs  make  verdant  all  the  realm. 


THE  BOYS  AND  THE  BERG  ALLS. 

TJNSCRUPULOUS  fishes  are  they! 

How  they  nibble— purloining  the  bait, 
Secure  it  ere  blackfish  may  bite, 

So  eager  and  quick  for  the  prey ! 
It  is  the  boy-anglers'  delight 

To  lean  o'er  the  wharf  or  the  pier, 
While  they  broil  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun, 

Dropping  lines  while  the  salt  tides  run  clear. 


THE   BOYS   AND  Tin:    BBBOA]  211 

They  envy  no  anglers  cquipt 

With  the  costliest  tackle  and  reel, 
With  the  fine  jointed  rod,  silver-tipt, 

With  landing-net,  lly-hook,  and  creel — 
The  anglers  abounding  in  wealth, 

Who  may  travel  for  sport  far  and  wide, 
And  cast  on  the  Labrador  coast 

For  salmon  that  swarm  in  the  tide. 

Oft  where  the  clear  rivulet  pours 

Through  meadow  or  rocky  ravine, 
The  anglers  may  seek  for  the  trout 

That  lurk  in  the  waters  serene  ; 
And  yet  these  poor  children  receive 

Purer  bliss  than  those  anglers  enjoy  ; 
No  regret  and  no  envy  disturbs 

The  simple  pastimes  of  the  boy. 
And,  mcthinks,  the  pleasures  supreme, 

"When  their  hearts  with  success  are  elate, 
Are  more  true,  more  ecstatic,  than  joys 

Of  the  wealthy,  the  proud,  and  the  great. 

When  the  holiday  season  arrives, 

And  the  school-bells  may  summon  no  more, 
See  them  issue  from  alley  and  street 

And  haste  to  the  banks  of  the  shore  ! 
Their  victims  are  poor,  it  is  true — 

The  sea-perch,  the  puny  bergall, 
All  rough  with  the  scales  and  the  spines, 

Yet  how  great  is  the  glory  of  all! 

'Mid  the  green,  slimy  spiles  of  the  pier, 

Where  the  shells  and  the  barnacles  cling, 
Now,  hopeful,  the  plummet  they  drop  ; 

Now,  eager,  the  fish-line  they  fling. 
How  welcome  each  dusky  brown  prize! 

What  treasures  they  draw  from  the  tide! 
How  triumphant  their  march  to  their  homes, 

Each  bearing  his  burden  with  pride! 


212  POEMS   OF  THE   ROB   AND   GUN. 


SCHOODIC  LAKES,  MAINE. 

[The  Schoodics  are  the  home  of  the  land-locked  salmon.  If  it 
is  that  this  peculiar  species  of  delicious  and  gamy  fish  exists  in 
other  waters,  it  is,  nevertheless,  identified  always  with  the 
charming  Schoodic  Lakes  and  the  St.  Croix  River. — CHARLES 
HALLOCK'S  Fishing  Tourist.'} 

A  H,  let  us  blissful  float  on  this  pellucid  stream, 

Idling  the  hours  of  summer-time  away ! 
Let  us  forget  the  fashions  of  the  world — 
Its  cares,  its  fretful  griefs,  anxieties, 
Ambition,  pride,  and  selfish,  low  desires; 
The  greedy  struggles  of  the  rich  for  wealth, 
The  slavish  toil  of  poverty  for  bread, 
The  arrogance  of  power,  the  hard  fate 
Of  men  in  smoky  crib  and  cabins  rude, 
And  all  the  sordid  passions  of  mankind. 

On,  in  our  birch  canoe,  we  listless  float, 
Now  in  the  sunshine,  now  in  shadows  lost, 
Where  great  Spruce  Mountain  casts  its  inky  shade, 
And  the  dim  depths  seem  fathomless. 
There  is  depressing  sadness  in  this  gloom 
That  overspreads  these  waters,  and  we  ply 
The  oar,  to  float  in  heaven's  own  light  again. 
Plying  the  paddle,  soon  the  light  canoe 
Speeds  like  an  arrow,  like  a  flitting  bird, 
With  scarce  a  murmuring  ripple  at  the  stern. 

Pausing  awhile,  entranc'd,  we  downward  gaze 
Deep  in  the  wave;  we  see  the  floating  cloud 
And  the  pure,  blue,  ethereal  skies  above 
Reflected,  picturing  a  new  heaven  below. 
From  a  cliff-summit  an  o'erhanging  tree 
Leans  o'er,  its  great  inverted  form  to  see, 
To  see  its  branching  tops  sink  prone  beneath. 
A  red  squirrel,  running  down  a  pendent  bough, 
Doth  seem  to  rise  from  bottom  of  the  lake, 
And  as  the  gazer  on  the  mir.ror  looks 
He  sees  exact  his  image  reproduc'd. 


REMINISCENCES.  213 

The  flapping  crows,  the  circling  hawks  that  pass, 
See  with  aina/.c  their  figures  in  the  wave. 
Aloft,  majestic  on  a  dead  tree-top, 
An  eagle  sits  as  wondering  at  the  scene; 
A  soaring  fish- hawk  skims  athwart  the  wave, 
Then  dips  his  dropping  wing  to  seize  his  prey. 
A  wild-duck,  startled  from  the  cove,  sweeps  by; 
Zigzag  a  kingfisher  flies,  shrill-screaming,  pa-t, 
From  up  the  lake  come  hoarse  cries  of  a  crane, 
And  melancholy  wail  of  lonely  loon. 

All  these  Hie  boatman  notes  with  dreamy  sense, 
And  then  anon  he  takes  his  tapering  rod 
And  casts  his  feather'd  lures  with  skilful  hand; 
He  takes  the  lordly  salmon  and  the  trout 
That  in  the  watery  abysses  float, 

The  fleeting  day  is  all  too  brief  for  him, 
So  fill'd  with  pleasing  sights  and  pleasant  sound; 
So,  when  the  evening  shades  steal  gradual  round 
He  turns  reluctant  to  his  bowery  camp. 


REMINISCENCES. 

EARLY  FISHING  SCENES  UNDER  THE  OLD  "ROPE-WALK,"  AT 
FOOT  OF  BOSTON  COMMON ,  NM\V  OCCUPIED  BY  THE  PUBLIC 
GARDEN  AND  BY  BLOCKS  OF  ELEGANT  MANSIONS. 

~\7"ES,  'tis  the  haunt  of  early  years, 

The  joyous  holiday-resort, 
Where,  in  the  happy  afternoon, 
We  came  for  childish  sport; 
The  scenes,  the  joys  of  vanish'd  time 
On  memory's  tablet  glow, 
The  ecstasies  of  youthful  life, 
The  bliss  of  long  ago  ! 

Twas  here  the  ancient  structure  stretclfd, 
The  brown  old  timbers  stood, 
The  weather-beaten  platform  too, 
That  spann'd  the  rising  flood; 
And  here  our  rosy  little  band, 


214  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   AND   GUN. 

When  tides  did  ebb  or  flow, 
Would  cluster  like  a  swarm  of  bees 
Ilang'd  in  a  crowded  row. 

Our  slender,  homely  fish-rods  then 
Would  line  the  friendly  pier, 
And  oh,  what  gleeful  shouts  arose, 
What  gay,  light-hearted  cheer, 
As  each  one  jerk'd  the  shiny  prize, 
The  ribb'd,  the  struggling  prey, 
That  filled  our  wicker  creels  with  wealth, 
Our  hearts  with  joy  that  day! 

I  gaze  around — but  all  so  strange  ! 
Sure  some  enchanter's  wand 
Hath  chang'd  the  scenes  where  waters  flowed, 
And  now  are  solid  land  ! 
There  where  the  little  angler  lean'd, 
The  swimmer  stemm'd  the  tide, 
The  "  Public  Garden"  I  behold, 
And  mansions  far  and  wide. 

Yet  yonder,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
The  "  Common"  spreads  its  space, 
There  waved  the  "  Great  Elm"  o'er  the  pond 
So  oft  our  try  sting-place  ; 
And  still  the  green  and  grassy  slopes 
Their  billowy  hillocks  spread, 
Where  oft  we  chas'd  the  bounding  ball 
Or  "  coasted  "  with  the  sled. 

I  see  the  "  State  House"  lift  its  dome, 
The  "  Park  Street's*"  soaring  spire, 
And  little  children  run  the  race 
As  if  they  ne'er  would  tire. 
But  these  are  not  the  groups  I  knew 
In  glimmering  years  of  old; 
Their  names  are  writ  on  tablets, 
Their  forms  rest  in  the  mould. 


THE   GOLD-FISH    AND   TITE    SILVER-FISH.  215 


THE  GOLD-FISH   AND   TIIK   SILVER-FISH. 

T3Y  a  little  crystal  brook 

Winding  thro'  a  woody  nook, 
Where  the  rippled  current  dashes 
'Neath  the  elm-trees  and  the  ashes, 
Oft  I  ramble  to  explore 
The  green  borders  of  the  shore. 

There  a  beach  of  gleamy  sand 
Fringes  the  rare  fairy-land,— 
Sand  as  white  as  virgin  snow, 
\Vith  the  color'd  shells  aglow  ; 
There  the  drooping  branches  meet 
In  that  Eden-like  retreat, 
There  the  climbing  grape-vine  weaves 
Garlands  with  its  emerald  leaves. 
There  the  water  lilies  float, 
Drifting  each  a  crystal  boat, 
Murmuring  honey-bees  glance  by, 
And  the  gorgeous  butterfly. 
All  the  scenes  beyond  compare, 
All  the  sweetest  sounds  of  air, 
Glorify  this  blissful  spot, 
With  enchantments  fill  the  grot. 

In  the  shadowy  in  the  gleam 
Of  the  pure  transparent  stream, 
See,  the  yellow  gold-fish  glide, 
Sporting  with  the  amber  tide, 
Skimming  near  the  riv'let's  face, 
Wheeling,  darting  in  the  race, 
Now  like  nuggets  of  red  ore 
Sparkling  o'er  the  sandy  floor  ; 
Lovely  ever  as  the  dyes 
Mingled  in  the  opal  skies. 
See,  too,  silver-fishes  skim 
As  with  Hutu-ring  tins  they  swim. 
Pearly-white  as  quivering  light 
Of  the  moonbeams  of  the  night. 


216  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AtfD   GUN". 

In  a  parlor's  gilded  room, 
Rich  with  roses  and  perfume, 
Where  the  porcelain  vases  shine 
Ruby-red,  as  fill'd  with  wine; 
Where  the  sculptur'd  marbles  stand 
Statuesque  on  every  hand; 
Where  the  velvet  couches  show, 
Where  the  silken  curtains  flow; 
Where  the  works  of  masters  old 
Fascinate  in  frames  of  gold; 
See  in  prismy  globes  of  glass 
Now  the  circling  fishes  pass, — 
'Tis  that  gold  and  silver  school 
Captives  from  the  fairy  pool, 
Kidnapp'd  from  the  forest  dell, 
Prison'd  in  the  glassy  cell. 


THE  HILLSIDE  RIVULET. 

A  N  Eden  haunt,  a  charming  fairy  grot, 

The  angler's  home  in  Nature's  fairest  spot! 
Where  peace,  like  some  wing-wearied  bird,  drops  down, 
Folds  her  white  pinions  o'er  her  breast  of  brown. 

The  evening  sky  is  fleck'd  with  gold, 

As  slow  the  setting  sun  declines; 
The  western  cloud's  transparent  fold  ' 

With  a  surpassing  radiance  shines. 

And  as  the  deepening  shadows  sweep 
Athwart  the  glimmering  landscape's  breast, 

And  o'er  the  purpled  mountains  creep, 
The  soft  air,  drowsy,  sinks  to  rest. 

How  clear  this  brooklet  in  whose  depths 

The  gold  and  silvery  fishes  glide  ! 
So  clear,  I  count  the  pink-hued  shells 

That  pave  the  cool,  transparent  tide. 


TIM:  OLD  MI i, i.  MY  Tin:  RIVER.  217 

How  gay  the  'broidering  flowers  that  fringe 
Its  edge  with  lines  of  varied  tinge, 
As  if  some  Fairy's  hand  had  sown 
The  place  with  jewels  from  her  /one! 
There  shines  a  crystal  shell  to  dip 
The  gelid  waters  to  the  lip; 
Would  that  the  Genius  of  the  place 
Might  beam  on  me  her  radiant  face! 

A  mimic  waterfall  pours  out 

Its  clear  libation  in  the  cool 
Granitic  basin  it  hath  made— 

A  sparkling  tribute  to  the  pool. 

A  willow  droops  its  leaves  o'eikead, 

Wild  gorse  and  heather  clothe  its  side, 
Where  ivies  and  brown  lichens  cling, 

And  fern  and  foxglove  line  the  tide, 
And  -rape-vines  their  light  garlands  Ming. 

The  rivulet  stops  to  kiss  each  llower, 
Lily  and  moss,  and  bending  grass, 

Touching  each  one  with  soft  caress, 
Ere  forth  forever  it  shall  pass. 

'Tis  here  the  musing  angler  comes 
To  choose  his  flies  and  cast  his  line, 

ing  where  dark  the  shadows  rest, 
•ring  win-re  rippling  eddies  shine. 


Till:   <>LD    MILL  BY  THE  RIVER. 

TTERE  in  the  years  when  life  was  bright 
With  dewy  mornings  and  sunset  light, 
In  the  pleasant  season  of  leafy  June, 
In  each  idle,  holiday  afternoon 
I  lov'd  to  wander  with  willow  wand — 
I  lov'd  on  the  river  border  to  stand 
And  take  the  trout  or  the  yellow  bream 
That  leap'd,  that  glanc'd  athwart  the  stream. 
With  broken  window,  with  hingeless  door, 
Thro'  which  the  slanting  sunbeams  pour; 


218  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN". 

With  leaning  gable,  and  settling  wall, 
O'er  which  the  draperied  ivies  fall; 
With  rafter  moldy,  worm-eaten  beam, 
O'er  which  the  silken  cobwebs  stream, 
Fast  by  the  river-banks  serene 
The  old  forsaken  mill  is  seen. 

Its  roof  shows  many  a  chasm  and  rent, 
Its  creaking  vane  is  crack'd  and  bent, 
In  and  out  the  swallows  fiV, 
Under  the  eaves  their  dwellings  lie. 
The  leather-wing'd  bats,  when  day  is  dim, 
Thro'  vacant  rooms  and  granaries  skim; 
Its  shingles  thai  ages  ago  were  new, 
Splendid  with  painters'  lavish  hue, 
Are  faded  now  and  swing  in  the  gale, 
Scarce  held  by  the  loosen'd  rusty  nail; 
The  clapboards  rattle  and  clank  amain 
In  gusts  of  the  snow-fall  and  the  rain, 
For  the  dust  of  many  a  lapsing  year 
Hath  writ  its  wasteful  chronicle  here. 

The  dam  o'er  which  the  waters  pour 
Is  settling  and  crumbling  by  the  shore; 
The  slippery  logs  and  mossy  stone 
Yield  to  the  current  one  by  one : 
And  swift  thro'  many  a  rent  abyss 
The  spouting  rivulets  foam  and  hiss, 
And  soon  must  the  crazy  fabric  decay, 
And  the  torrent  sweep  uncheck'd  away. 
The  water-wheel  so  black  and  vast, 
With  beam  like  a  battle -vessel's  mast 
That  once  would  churn  with  mighty  sweep 
The  boiling  waters  so  dark  and  deep, 
Lies  now  a  wreck  in  humbled  pride, 
Trembling  with  each  assault  of  the  tide. 

Under  the  crumbling,  blacken'd  wheel 
The  crystal  bubbles  circle  and  reel; 
Over  and  under  the  eddies  boil 
Round  molder'd  timber  and  rotting  post; 
In  many  a  circling  ripple  they  coil 
In  sudden  plunge,  in  wild  turmoil, 
Now  seen  an  instant,  then  quickly  lost. 


MY   OLD   FISHING-BOAT.  219 


MY    01,1)    FIS1IIN<;  IJOAT. 

A/f  Y  old  boat  rests  on  the  shore, 
By  the  river's  sedgy  brink, 
Where  the  meadow  grass  bends  o'er, 

And  the  cattle  come  to  drink; 
Tis  a  rusty,  batter'd  boat, 

IJi.at  without  mast  or  sail, 
And  it  never  again  may  iloat. 

In  dead  calm  or  in  gale; 
Fur  its  timbers  and  ribs  are  rent, 
Shivrr'd  and  crack'd  and  bent, 
And  the  paint  has  faded  away, 
From  its  sides  this  many  si-day; 
Sides  gaping  in  every  seam, 
Wide  open  to  the  stream. 

And  yet  a  brave  boat  wast  thou! 

When  I  launch'd  you  long  ago, 
When  thy  shapely,  sharpen'd  prow, 
Cleaved  the  waters  like  a  plow; 

Gay  then  each  painted  side, 
With  umber  and  green  and  white, 

My  triumph  and  my  pride, 
My  glory,  my  heart's  delight ! 

Was  ever  a  joy  in  the  past, 
Like  mine  when  first  arose, 

The  flag  at  the  head  of  the  mast, 
A  pennon  of  purple  and  rose; 

When  first  thy  snowy  sail, 
I  gave  to  the  riotous  breeze, 

And  steer'd  from  this  river- vale, 
Straight  out  to  the  open  seas! 

Ah,  many  the  splendid  school 
Of  fish,  in  these  river-deeps, 

That  haunt  each  darksome  pool, 
Or  Hash  where  the  current  sweeps; 


220  POEMS   OF  THE   EOD   AtfD   GUN". 

Have  I  follow'd  where  e'er  they  float, 
And  gather'd  into  this  boat; 

And  along  the  salty  tides 
Of  the  sea,  I  have  track'd  their  way, 

Till  their  glittering,  scaly  sides, 
In  my  little  shallop  lay. 


FISHING  FOR  ALBICORE  IN  THE  SOUTH  PACIFIC. 

whale-ship  speeds  upon  her  foamy  way, 
And  all  around  the  measureless  ocean  spreads 
Its  vast  expanse  of  the  white-crested  waves. 
No  whales  in  sight,  no  spouting  jets  to  call 
Our  listless  crew  to  man  the  idle  boat; 
So  all  collect  on  spar  and  bulwark-side 
To  view  a  scene  that  animates  the  deep. 

In  air  above  the  giant  albatross 
Swings  in  great  wings;  the  blue  cape-pigeons  skim 
The  azure  plain;  the  circling  frigate-bird 
Plies  its  long  pinions,  hungry  for  the  prey; 
The  little  pilot-fish  leap  at  the  prow, 
And  vast  shoals  of  the  flying-fish  arise, 
And  flit  in  air  pursued  by  foes  below 
And  greedy  birds  that  hover  in  the  air. 

The  glittering  dolphin,  its  remorseless  foe, 
Follows  the  frighten'd  shoal  till  they  emerge 
In  air,  with  vibratory  fin  and  wavering  flight; 
Then  swift  the  dolphin,  like  a  streak  of  flame, 
Darts  thro'  the  brine,  and  snaps  them  as  they  fall. 
Their  deadliest  foe,  the  savage  albicore, 
That  fierce  sea-tiger,  preys  upon  their  shoals. 

The  slaughter  of  the  albicore,  when  herded  thick 
Around  the  ship,  by  sword-fish  foes  pursued, 
Yields  to  the  seaman  most  enchanting  sport. 
When  blows  the  breeze  the  sailor  takes  his  perch 
Upon  the  swinging  mizzen-boom  astern, 
His  tackle  a  three-stranded  line,  his  lure 
A  clumsy  hook,  on  whose  long  shank  revolves 
A  pearl-shell  plate,  with  wings  of  fluttering  cloth, 


Tin:  WHALE.  221 

That  well  may  simulate  a  flying-fish. 
He  casts  his  line  far  o'er  the  seething  brine, 
He  skips  the  shining  lure  from  wave  to  wave, 
And  with  oar-harden'cl  grasp  awaits  the  rise. 

The  glittering  albicore  are  thick  around, 
Till  one  more  hungry,  with  a  splendid  spring, 
A  dash,  a  splash,  a  leap,  secures  the  bait. 
Ah,  what  a  rise  is  this!    The  rushing  ship 
Cuts  thro'  the  deep  with  "  bone  of  foam"  in  teeth, 
The  angler  swaying  on  the  unsteady  spar; 
The  fish,  with  thrice  the  strength  of  salmon,  leaps, 
Struggles,  and  glances  through  the  salt  abyss, 
And  tlien,  exhausted,  yields  his  bleeding  life, 
And  lies  on  deck  a  blue  and  silvery  mass. 
Such  the  grand  sport  of  ocean,  that  doth  shame 
The  puny  pastimes  of  the  lake  and  stream. 


THE  WHALE.     (Cetaeea.) 

CATLING  across  the  lonely  seas, 

Sailing  across  the  Okotsb  Sound, 
The  tempest-beaten  ship  roll'd  on, 

On  distant  voyagiugs  bound. 
For  months  the  ship  had  swept  the  deep; 

Long  since  had  faded  the  lamps  of  home, 
Long  since  the  headlands  had  grown  dim, 

The  lighthouse  vanish'd  o'er  the  foam; 
For  seasons  'neath  the  Southern  Cross, 

Through  seas  Antarctic  they'd  been  borne, 
Far  down  Magellan's  stormy  Strait, 

And  stony  barriers  of  Cape  Horn. 
And  now  the  Northern  tides  they  sought, 

Where  glaciers  lin'd  the  barren  shore, 
Where  icebergs  lift  their  crystal  peaks, 

And  frosty  tides  chafe  evermore. 

They  sail'd,  sail'd  on,  day  after  day, 
And  yet  no  "  spout"  arous'd  the  crews; 

The  "lookout"  in  the  "crow's-nest"  gave 
No  warning  cry — no  joyful  news. 


222  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

For  months  no  flash  of  mighty  "  flukes," 

No  lashing  of  the  forked  tail, 
Were  seen  across  the  watery  space, — 

No  joyful  gambols  of  the  whale. 
The  captain  restless  paced  the  deck, 

The  crew  in  forecastle  would  sleep ; 
The  furnace  fires  were  all  unlit, 

And  life  was  dreary  o'er  the  deep; 
Only  the  porpoise  school  would  rise, 

The  great  shark  flash  across  the  main, 
The  dolphin  whirl  athwart  the  bow, 

The  sword-fish-cleave  the  billowy  plain. 

But  sudden,  from  the  black  mast-head, 

A  welcome  salutation  rose: 
"  Sharp  on  the  starboard  beam  she  spouts," 

"Broad  on  the  larboard  bow  she  blows!" 
And  instant  on  that  idle  deck 

Was  shout  of  men  and  tramp  of  feet; 
Harpoon  and  lance  from  rack  were  torn, 

And  eyes  would  flash  and  hearts  would  beat. 
"  Down  with  the  boats!"  the  captain  spoke; 

"  Down  boats!  and  tumble  in,  my  men!" 
And  quick  the  sturdy  oars  were  out, 

The  oarsmen  straining  to  the  stroke; 
With  steady  pull  they  manful  swept, 

Harpooner  poising  at  the  prow, 
The  helmsman  cheering  at  the  stern, 

The  sharp  stem  cleaving  like  a  plow. 

Right  soon  beside  that  dusky  bulk, 

The  huge  leviathan  of  the  deep, 
That  little  weather-beaten  boat 

In  swift,  heroic  charge  did  sweep. 
Then  harpoon,  with  gigantic  strength, 

Prone  on  that  living  wall  was  cast ; 
"  Stern  all!"  the  cry;  "  Back  oars,  my  men!" 

And  backing  oars  made  frantic  haste. 


THE   DOLPHIN.  223 

Thru  with  a  plunge  (while  spots  of  blood 

Redden'd  the  wave)  sank  down  tin-  whale, 
('leaving  the  billows  with  his  head. 

Lashing  the  foam  with  tlourish'd  tail. 
Then  swift  across  the  whale  boat's  prow 

Whistled  the  smoking,  (lying  line; 
While  thousand  fathoms  deep  the  prey 

Dropt  in  abysses  of  the  brine, 
But  quick  the  monstrous  bulk  arose, 

Like  balloon  springing  up  in  air; 
And  quick  the  deadly  lance  was  thrust, 

And  the  great  pri/e  roll'd  helpless  there. 


Till-:  DOLPHIN.     (Cnryi Jama  Ifijipnri*.) 

y  WIFTEST  and  most  rapacious  of  the  tribes 

That  swim  the  seas,  art  thou,  marauder  fierce; 
Thou  and  the  porpoise  and  the  grampus  huge, 
Cruel  and  swift  as  sharks  pursue  their  prey, 
The  pilchard,  herring,  and  the  bunker-shoals 
Forever  and  forever  in  the  tides. 

When  smooth  are  seas,  with  scarce  a  crest  of  foam, 
Your  schools  in  vast  collected  herds  are  seen 
Leaping  the  waters,  all  in  mad  pursuit 
Of  mackerel  and  salmon  o'er  the  deep. 
Like  packs  of  hungry  hounds  that  hunt  the  hare 
They  gather  round  and  swim  from  bay  to  bay, 
Encircling  with  their  fatal  ring  the  prey. 
There  their  vast  numbers  darken  all  the  wave, 
Ki-ing  ofttimes  to  breathe  the  upper  air, 
But  when  a  tempest  roughens  the  blue  deep, 
They  roll  and  tumble  in  their  antic  sport, 
For  then  no  fish  may  tempt,  for  in  the  depths 
Their  frighten'd  prey  seek  refuges  unseen. 

In  ancient  years  the  poets  sang  in  verse, 
Their  fabled  legends  of  the  dolphin  tribe, 
Reciting  their  true  love  for  humankind. 
They  sang  that  in  all  terrors  of  the  main, 
When  the  poor  seamen  were  in  shipwreck  toss'd, 
The  loving  dolphins  to  their  rescue  came, 


224  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 

And  bore  the  drowning  victims  safe  to  shore ; 
And  came  to  rescue  when  a  hapless  crew 
Were  cast  by  ruthless  pirates  in  the  deep ; 
And  ever  when  a  youthful  swimmer  sank 
In  the  death  gasp,  the  dolphin  gave  him  help, 
Bearing  him  up  and  bringing  safe  to  shore. 

Those  painters  and  great  sculptors  of  old  time 
Drew  his  lithe  form  in  carv'd  fantastic  shape, 
Bent  like  a  bow,  o'erleaping  the  salt  wave. 
Those  poets  fabled  that  in  dying  throes 
The  dolphin  utters  a  sad,  piteous  moan 
Like  that  of  human  being  as  he  dies. 

But  in  these  later  years,  the  mariners 
Dread  the  dark  omen  that  their  presence  gives, 
For  when  they  see  their  sports,  their  gambollings, 
They  quick  interpret  them  as  signs  of  storm. 
Warnings  of  shipwreck  and  impending  death! 


CARP  AND  TENCH— ON  THE  TABLE.     (Cyprinus  carpo.) 

A  H,  those  were  jolly  days  of  old, 

When  feudal  earl  and  baron  bold, 
And  princely  guest  of  high  degree, 
Vassal  and  serf  and  henchman  free, 
Assembled  at  the  chieftain's  call 
To  banquet  in  baronial  hall! 
The  tocsin-sound  from  battlement 
O'er  hill  and  dale  and  wood  was  sent; 
The  banner'd  turret  call'd  to  arms, 
The  castle  bell  rang  out  alarms, 
That  all  should  gather  at  the  board 
Ere  they  should  brandish  spear  and  sword. 

The  liveried  servitors  would  place 
The  boar-head  slaughter'd  in  the  chase, 
Set  venison-haunch  on  silver  plate, 
Bring  great  sirloin  in  pomp  of  state, 
Bear  flagons  of  the  frothy  ale, 
Bring  creamy  mead-bowls  to  regale, 


CARP   ANE  TENCH— ON   THE   TABLE.  225 

Bring  blood-red  juices  of  the  vine, 
The  ripe,  the  old,  the  rosy  wine; 
But  chief  of  all,  on  mighty  dish, 
Was  phic'd  the  carp,  the  prince  of  fish. 

Right  well  did  dainty  churchmen  know 
To  rear  fat  beeves,  rare  fruits  to  grow, 
To  breed  in  convent  moat  and  trench 
The  bulky  carp,  the  luscious  tench; 
To  fill  their  ponds  with  pike  and  dace, 
And  all  the  wealth  of  finny  race. 
At  matin  hour,  at  vesper  chime, 
And  at  the  mid-day  feasting  time, 
How  pleasant  at  the  festive  board, 
Where  capons  smok'd  and  wine  was  pour'd, 
The  brown-bak'-d  dish  of  carp  to  share, 
The  epicure's  delicious  fare; 

Good  trenchermen,  I  ween,  were  they, 
Ready  to  gormandize  or  pray, 
To  patter  prayer  or  tell  the  bead, 
Or  riot  in  luxurious  feed. 
A  stalwart  race,  those  monks  of  old, 
Of  wondrous  bulk,  of  mighty  mould. 

When  sumptuous  board  was  duly  spread, 
The  portly  abbot  at  its  head, 
Boasting  for  guest  the  mitred  priest, 
Or  learned  prelate  at  the  feast, 
Would  grandly  bid,  in  accents  sharp, 
The  serving-men  bring  in  the  carp. 

Ah,  hooded  monk  and  cowled  friar, 
Carousing  by  the  blazing  fire, 
And  feeding  on  all  viands  rare, 
A  delicate,  delicious  fare; 
Draining  the  cup  of  brimming  ale, 
Your  thirsty  palates  to  regale, — 
How  grand  your  .slate  in  priest  1)'  stall, 
In  peasant's  hut,  or  noble's  hall! 
Ah,  little  of  such  joys  remain 
For  you,  in  England's  modern  reign! 
15 


226  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND    GUN. 


THE  LITTLE  SUNFISH  OF  THE  BROOK. 

T  REMEMBER  those  gay  dawnings  when  life  was  fresh  and  new, 

The  rising  mist  above  the  vale,  the  skies  of  heavenly  blue, 
The  old  embowering  groves  kiss'd  by  the  new-born  day, 
The  dew-wet  twinkling  grass,  the  wayside  wild-flowers  gay. 

I  remember  the  footpath  that  to  the  brooklet  led, 
The  hazel-copse  that  o'er  the  lane  a  leafy  arbor  spread ; 
The  meadows  rolling  far  their  billowy  waves  of  green, 
The  upland  pasture-lands,  the  valleys  so  serene, 
And  dearest  spot,  the  little  brook  that  runs  so  wild  a  race, 
Its  pebbles  white,  its  yellow  sand,  its  merry,  dimpled  face. 

And  here  my  little  hazel  rod  was  swinging  above  the  brook, 
The  line  was  cast  in  rippling  whirl  or  in  the  shaded  nook ; 
For  here  the  spangled  sun-fish  were  tenants  of  the  pool, 
Now  darting  singly  in  their  play,  now  swarming  in  a  school. 

It  may  be  that  the  angler,  equipped  with  tackle  fine, 
With  silver  reel  and  bamboo  rod,  and  woven-silkeu  line, 
Who  takes  the  springing  trout  and  sea  bass  by  the  score ; 
Or  brings  to  gaff  the  salmon,  along  the  ocean  shore, 
Hath  joy  ineffable,  and  vast  success  to  boast, 
At  Adirondack  lakes,  or  Labrador's  pale  coast. 

But  never  may  his  victories,  at  brook  or  salty  tide, 
Yield  joy  like  that  of  boyhood,  such  glory  and  such  pride, 
Such  transports  as  enchant  him,  beside  the  woodland  stream, 
His  spoil  the  little  sunfish,  his  pride  the  yellow  bream. 

Ah,  never  was  such  glory,  such  ecstacy  of  bliss, 
Or  such  delirious  rapture,  such  triumphant  spoil  as  this ! 
When  all  the  grass  was  spangled,  with  finny  leaping  gems, 
Gems  strung  like  precious  rubies,  on  supple  willow  stems. 

They  say,  my  little  friend,  that  the  ripple  of  the  stream, 
With  thy  vermillion  beauty,  may  no  longer  gleam. 
That  the  golden  yellow  sides,  that  shine  like  sunset  glow, 
Or  the  colors  intermingled  in  the  showery  rainbow, 
May  never  more  be  seen  where  the  crystal  waters  glide, 
The  clear,  pellucid  waters  that  o'er  the  shallows  slide. 

They  say  thou  art  a  pirate,  a  brigand  that  doth  slay 
The  eggs  and  young  of  choicer  fish  that  in  the  waters  play; 
I  know  not  if  such  charges  for  outlawry  be  true, 
But  none  the  less  my  sympathies  shall  ever  be  with  you. 


THE   HERRING    AND   PILCHARD.  227 


THE  HERRING  AND  PILCHARD.    (Clupea  Pilcfamlus.) 

COUNTLESS  your  squadrons,  nuinbcrlcss  as  the  stars, 

That  sow  with  light  the  spaces  of  the  skies, 
Countless  as  sands  that  pave  the  ocean  beach, 
Vc  migratory  wanderers  of  the  seas! 
Your  native  homes  lie  in  the  Arctic  North, 
Where  icy  currents  chafe  the  rocky  coasts 
lu  waters  inaccessible,  so  fring'd  with  ice. 
And  here  secure  from  man  and  tinny  foes, 
The  lin-llsli  and  the  chacalot,  ye  roam, 
And  here  mid  pastures  of  the  insect  food, 
Ye  feed  till  your  great  legions  fill  the  seas, 
And  then  like  swarming  bees  ye  thence  migrate. 

Then  your  vast  colonies  from  Northern  realms, 
Depart  to  seek  the  southern  billows  of  the  main, 
Ah!  then  what  fate  awaits  ye,  what  fierce  foes! 
Fin-fish  and  grampus,  porpoise  and  the  shark 
Make  ye  their  easy  prey;  while  hungry  flocks 
Of  sea-fowl  hover  o'er  your  devious  track. 
As  on  your  great  shoals  pass,  insatiate  foes, 
Tigers  of  ocean  tides  surround  your  schools, 
Until  they  separate  like  frightened  sheep; 
Some  passing  thick  by  European  coasts, 
Some  crossing  the  Atlantic  till  they  swarm 
Around  thy  continent,  America, 
To  seek  in  Chesapeake  their  last  retreat; 
So  thirk  they  move  the  ocean  seems  alive, 
And  black  with  their  exhaustless  multitudes; 
Yet  here  the  porpoise  and  the  shark  pursue, 
Reddening  the  currents,  while  the  fowl  devour. 

Soon  by  the  Shetland  Isles  in  April  time, 
They  come,  but  not  till  June  their  swarming  hosts 
Collect,  still  ravag'd  by  the  gull  and  hawk. 
They  pass  in  files  distinct,  long  leagues  in  length, 
Now  lost  in  deep  abysses  of  the  sea, 
Now  rising  to  the  surface,  to  reflect 
Their  twinkling,  splendid  colorings, 


POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Like  fields  bespangled  with  the  flowers  of  gold, 
They  spread  along  the  stormy  Norway  shores, 
By  German  coasts,  and  northern  reefs  of  France. 
And  thence  with  shoals  depleted  they  return, 
To  seek  their  native  haunts  in  Arctic  seas. 


THE  DIVIDED  STREAM. 

(^)N  this  green,  grassy  valley-slope 

The  river  stream  divides ; 
It  is  the  first  departing  point 

Where  the  pellucid  tides, 
So  long  commingled  in  one  stream, 

Flow  in  two  channels  swift  and  deep, 
Each  destined,  in  its  shade  or  gleam, 

In  different  route  to  sweep. 

And  distant  far  shall  be  each  course 

Until  they  reach  the  sea; 
One  passing  thro'  green  valleys, 

In  shades  of  forest  tree; 
'Mid  garden  blooms  and  orchards, 

Cornfield,  and  sylvan  home, — 
A  placid  stream,  where  finny  tribes 

Sparkle,  and  leap,  and  roam. 

The  other  stream  seeks  barren  lands, 

And  sterile  pastures  grim, 
Pours  in  white  torrents  over  rocks, 

Plunges  in  caverns  dim; 
No  life  along  its  border  stirs, 

No  angler's  step  is  there, — 
For  spotted  trout  and  leaping  pike 

Are  absent  everywhere. 

So, "friend  beloved,  we  separate, 

No  more  on  earth  to  meet, 
One  guided  by  a  happy  fate, 

Where  life  is  calm  and  sweet ; 
The  other  in  rough  tempests  hurl'd, 

'Mid  madding  tumults  of  the  world. 


SK.\-\V.\TI:K   VERSUS   n;i>ii  w ATI:K   HHIIN<,. 


IlIVAL    PLEASURES    OF    SEA-WATER    AND     FRESH 
WATER  FISHING. 

(~)H,  how  pleasant  to  stand  at  the  water-side 

When  the  soft  south  wind  blows  o'er  the  tide! 
At  bend  of  river  where  willows  droop 
Their  trailing  branches,  a  lovely  group! 
With  belt  of  trees  on  either  bank, 
Where  sedge  and  osiers  grow  green  and  rank; 
Broad  meadows  sloping  to  each  brink 
W lii-re  browsing  cattle  stoop  to  drink, 
The  air  all  musical  with  the  bi 
The  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees, 
With  the  lulling  sound  the  ripples  make 
As  over  the  shallow  reef  they  break, 
The  muffled  voice  of  the  waterfall 
Where  it  pours  o'er  the  mill-dam's  stony  wall; 
Ah,  these  are  sights  and  sounds  that  till 
The  angler's  bosom  with  a  thrill; 
As  he  casts  his  line,  what  perfect  bliss! 
Earth  hath  no  paradise  like  this. 

Then,  too,  to  him  what  rare  delight 

To  follow  the  trout-brook  in  its  tlight, 

Now  rippling,  eddying  on  its  way, 

Gleaming,  rejoicing  in  light  of  day, 

Where  it  runs  thro'  the  pasture's  open  space 

Gliding  at  will  in  gleeful  race; 

Now  stealing  into  the  densest  shade 

By  the  o'erleaning  alders  made, 

Now  wheeling  around  some  sunken  root, 

With  arrowy  speed  and  sudden  shoot, 

And  here  is  the  angler's  joy  supreme, 

Enriched  with  the  treasures  of  the  stream! 

And  yet  the  fisher's  steps  explore 

With  equal  joy  the  salt  sea  shore, 

Skims  in  his  yacht  the  breezy  bay, 

Where  schools  of  the  leaping  blucfish  play; 


230  POEMS   OF  THE    ROD   A^D    GOT. 

Stemming  the  boiling  tides  with  prow 
That  cleaves  the  billows  like  the  plow; 
And  here  he  casts  the  humming  line 
To  snatch  the  weakfish  from  the  brine. 

Off  where  the  tumbling  billows  roar, 
Afar  from  ledge  or  bar  of  shore, 
He  drops  his  anchor,  casts  his  bait, 
The  snap,  the  nibble  to  await; 
And  soon  the  flapping  spoil  is  won, 
The  sea  bass  blue,  the  blackfish  dun, 
And  thinks  no  joys  may  rival  these 
The  angling  pastimes  of  the  seas. 

Yes,  bliss  ecstatic  will  fill  the  heart 
Of  angler  in  all  his  varied  art, 
Whether  he  tracks  the  woodland  brooks 
With  silken  tackle  and  featker'd  hooks, 
Seeking  in  depths  of  pond  or  lake 
The  tenants  of  those  haunts  to  take, 
Or  dropping  in  the  sea  his  line 
To  lure  the  fish-schools  of  the  brine ; 
Finding  forever  joy  in  woods, 
Forever  joy  in  ocean  floods. 


THE  CREVALLE  FISH  OF  FLORIDA. 

[Illustrated  in  The  Fishes  of  the  East  Atlantic  Coast.} 

"VTtTHERE  thy  streams,  Florida,  wander  in  their  wilful  route, 

Rippled  with  eddies,  and  with  riffles  bright 
The  angler  follows  the  erratic  way, 

Taking  supreme  delight. 
All  nature  with  enchantments  thrills  his  mind, 

Woods,  waters,  meads  and  wildernesses  green, 
All  rarest  flowers  their  garlands  intertwine 

In  that  Elysian  scene. 


IIII-    <  IM  VALLE   FISH   OF   FLORIDA.  231 

Anglers  of  north  thro'  ice  cold  waters  wade. 

Struggling  their  way  thn>'  brier,  swamp  and  weed, 
Thick  bushes  vexing  with  entangling  grasp, 

His  pleasures  to  impede, 
While  ropes  of  vines  and  overhanging  boughs 

Arrest  his  rod  and  snap  his  line  in  twain, 
While  gusty  bree/.es,  with  their  Arctic  breath, 

Benumb  the  heart  and  brain. 

Here  in  thy  sunny  realm.  O  Florida, 

The  open  streams  allure  the  angler's  tread, 
Open  save  where  the  orange  opes  its  bloom, 

Or  water  oaks  droop  overhead. 

And  sweet  magnolias  spread; 

by  the  grassy  brink  of  river  shore, 

Or  by  the  sandy  beach  that  hems  the  sea, 
Inhaling  draughts  of  purest  atmosphere 

He  wanders  glad  and  free. 
Here  off  the  shores  the  tarpums  love  to  bask. 

Or  skim  the  surges  in  their  wilful  sweep. 
Grouper  and  jew-lish,  pompano,  spot  and  drum, 

Rare  tenants  of  the  deep. 

And  where  gay  flowers  enamel  all  the  shore 

The  swift  crevalle  swim  in  flashing  school, 
Fast  by  Mosquito  Inlet,  Indian  Stream, 

Where  flow  the  currents  cool. 
The  mullet  and  menhaden  they  pursue, 

Strewing  the  sands  with  wealth  of  captive  prey. 
Where  the  brown  pelicans  may  fill  their  pouch 

And  sea-birds  join  the  fray. 

Swift  speed  crevalle  o'er  that  watery  plain. 

Swift  over  Indian  Hiver's  broad  expanse, 
Swift  where  the  ripples  boil  with  fumy  hosts, 

Bright  glittering  they  glance; 
And  where  the  angler's  spoon  is  o'er  them  cast 

How  fierce,  how  vigorous  the  fight  for  life! 
Now  in  the  deeps  they  plunge,  now  leap  in  air, 

'Till  ends  th'  unequal  strife. 


232         POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  A^D  GOT. 


THE  LAST  CAST. 

A    PILE  of  gold — a  precious  hoard — 

Gleams  on  the  green  cloth  of  the  board; 
A  wealth  that  might  buy  house  and  land, 
Gain  every  luxury  at  command. 
A  gambler  with  delirious  haste 
His  final,  fateful  card  doth  cast, 
And  wins  the  treasure  at  the  last. 

A  boat  across  the  ocean  blue 
Is  drifting  with  a  shipwreck'd  crew. 
O'erloaded,  it  must  meet  its  fate, 
Unless  reliev'd  of  human  weight. 
So  dice  are  thrown  for  blank  or  prize, 
And  he  that  casts  the  least  throw,  dies. 
The  loser  his  last  chance  hath  thrown, 
And  is  cast  overboard  to  drown. 

A  hunter  over  Afric's  space 
Meets  a  grim  lion,  face  to  face: 
With  frantic  haste  he  speeds  the  ball — 
Aim  true,  or  death  must  sure  befall ; 
The  aim  is  true — the  monster  dies, 
The  latest  bullet  wins  the  prize. 

An  angler  by  a  mountain  brook 
Ties  on  his  final  feathered  hook. 
A  big  trout,  rich  with  spotted  sides, 
The  dimpled  rivulet  divides, 
The  open  season  ends  to-day, 
This  his  last  chance  for  finny  prey; 
Breathless  he  makes  his  anxious  cast, 
Secures  his  rich  prize  and  his  last. 

A  fisher  on  Superior's  Lake 
With  but  one  bait  the  spoil  to  take; 
A  noble  bass  of  wondrous  size 
Dashes  to  seize  the  luring  prize. 
That  creature  of  the  rainbow  fins 
Is  captive,  and  the  last  cast  wins. 

The  waves  run  cold,  the  seas  frown  bleak, 
The  fish-tribes  sunnier  pastures  seek; 


Till:    i:l.A<  K    1 1 II I'M. 

The  seiners  gather  ;it  tlio  main 

To  run  the  long  extended  seine; 

One  only  glittering  school  is  there 

To  tempt  the  meshes  of  the  snare; 

With  toil  of  arm  and  tug  of  oar, 

The  hist  cast  heaps  with  wealth  the  shore. 


THE  1JLACK   DRUM.     (Pot/on  ian  cJiromb.) 

"The  drum  is  the  largest   fish  caught  with  hook  and  line  that 
visits  the  Eastern  COtft.  —  Ifeta  <>f(h,    /•,',/>•/  Atlantic  (\m*t. 


T^ARdown  in  the  South,  where  big  cotton  ' 

And  fragrant  magnolias  nod  their  green  crests, 
And  with  scents  aromatic  perfume  the  air, 
In  fair  Florida,  where  in  wood  colonnades 
The  song-birds  their  melodies,  flute-like,  unite, 
Is  an  Eden  of  light,  eternal  in  bloom, 
There  hasten,  dear  angler,  their  transports  to  taste! 

Tis  a  realm  of  enchantment,  luxuriant  with  life, 
So  fair  with  its  woods,  the  rivers,  the  meads, 
Whore  birds,  given  as  leaves  and  scarlet  as  flowers, 
Enameled  like  gems,  fly  swift  overhead; 
Where  the  groat  crowns  of  cocoa-nuts  tower  in  air 
And  bananas  display  Ihoir  low-drooping  Hags, 
Where  each  orchid  and  leaf  and  frill  of  the  fern 
Bright  glitter,  and  fire  flies  bla/e  thro'  the  shades. 
And  the  frondage,  snow-white,  of  arooa  palm-trees, 
Like  fountains  gleam  out  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

And  there  in  the  salty  lagoons  and  the  bays, 
Or  where  the  sea-surges  break  white  on  the  shore, 
The  angler  for  bronze-tinted  drum  casts  the  line 
And  triumphs  at  will  by  strength,  tackle  and  skill; 
He  is  happy  his  fingerlings,  troutings  to  leave, 
And  gather  in  South  a  mightier  pri/.e. 

At  the  influx  of  tide,  drums  drift  in  from  sea 
In  search  of  Crustacea,  the  mollusks  of  sand. 
From  Florida  borders  to  far  up  the  coast, 
At  inlets  of  Jersey,  at  Ciittyhunk  rocks; 


234  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUN. 

And  in  Chesapeake  Bay  their  numbers  prevail, 
Where  anglers  and  spearmen  are  earnest' to  take 
The  black-drum,  the  red-drum,  wherever  they  roam. 
Their  murmurs,  their  drumming,  are  heard  in  the  deeps, 
Like  the  dull,  muffled  roll  of  the  bandsman's  reveille. 
Is  it  then  a  drum- warning  to  worlds  of  the  sea, 
Or  a  musical  welcome  to  haste  to  the  feast? 

Ah,  firm  be  your  arm  when  a  forty-pound  drum 
Has  snapt  at  your  bait  in  the  flow  of  the  tide; 
He  is  full  of  the  rush  and  the  vigor  of  life, 
With  muscles  inured  to  the  combat  with  seas; 
O  angler,  take  heed  lest  he  rush  to  the  roots 
Of  the  mangroves  below,  where  his  castle  he  holds. 


FLORIDA  SCENES  AND   SPORTS. 

"Nowhere  in  our  broad  country  can  the  angler  find  greater 
variety  of  game,  or  more  or  better  sport  than  on  the  coasts  of 
Florida."— S.  C.  CLARKE,  in  "The  Fishes  of  the  East  Atlantic 
Coast.1' 

TTERE  in  my  Northern  home  I  love  to  muse, 
Fair  Florida,  on  all  thy  sumptuous  scenes; 
In  fancy  tread  savannas  that  engird, 
With  flowery  circles,  thy  embowering  woods; 
Walk  'neath  a  vaulted  roof  of  smilax  wreaths, 
Thro'  dense  lianas  that  entangle  feet, 
To  pluck  th'  hydrangea's  rosy-tinted  tufts, 
The  dahlias,  asters,  and  the  starry  flox. 
The  fairest  plants  that  in  our  garden  grow, 
Spontaneous  here  from  Nature's  urn  they  pour, 
Water'd  by  dews,  by  tropic  sunbeams  warm'd. 

Here  is  the  sportsman's  paradise,  the  realm 
Of  fowler's  triumphs  and  the  angler's  joy, 
Where  screaming  wild-fowl  o'er  the  marshes  speed, 
Or  swarm  by  sea-beach  or  the  salt  lagoon, 
Where  in  the  currents  by  the  mangrove-isles 
Swim  gamey  fishes,  dear  to  angler's  heart. 

Here  wolf  and  wild-cat  and  the  prowling  bear 
The  thick  fastnesses  of  the  waste  invade, 


FLOKIDA   BOBKBfl   AN'D  SPORTS,  235 

In  coppice  dense  the  stately  turkey  stalks 
The  russet  quail  o'er  open  stubbles  flies, 
And  by  the  sandy  beach  or  lonely  marsh 
The  curlews  whistle,  golden  plover  call, 
And  every  salt  lagoon  and  bend  of  stream 
Re-echoes  quack  of  duck,  or  honk  of  goose, 
( )r  hoarse,  discordant  clamor  of  the  swan, 
While  by  the  shores  the  red  flamingoes  move, 
Or  silent  stand  like  sentinels  on  guard. 

Ah!  gentle  angler,  how  profuse  the  spoil 
That  fills  the  river  deeps,  the  channel  tk 
Haste  with  thy  tackle  and  the  pliant  rod, 
To  cast  thy  luring  fly,  thy  mullet  bait. 
Thick  by  the  mangrove-isles  the  black  drum  bask, 
Thick  by  the  grassy  shore  cavalle  swim, 
Thick  'neath  the  glossy  leaves  of  water-oak 
The  channel-bass,  the  tarpum  and  the  spot 
Flash  thro'  the  tides,  or  sportive  leap  in  air. 

The  naturalist  here  walks  in  thoughtful  mood, 
His  heart  responsive  throbbing  with  the  joy; 
The  angler  with  ineffable  delight 
Beholds  each  form  and  hue  of  nature's  gifts, 
Insect  and  bird,  and  floral  offerings. 
He  stops  to  hear  the  insects'  murmurous  hum, 
Or  watch  some  basking  reptile  as  he  clings 
To  the  tree-bark,  a  li/ard  many-hued; 
He  notes  wing'd  creatures  hovering  o'er  the  flower, 
Quivering  and  balauc'd,  winnowing  their  wings, 
Like  color'd  flowerets  blossomed  on  the  stalk, 
While  flowers  themselves  like  living  insects  seem. 

He  sees  the  gay-hued  snakes  like  ribbons  twine, 
Coil'd  in  green  nooks,  and  serpents  beautiful, 
That  glittering  slide  and  vanish  from  the  sight; 
Brown  squirrels  frisk  and  peep  among  the  boughs, 
While  cooing  doves  and  distant  parrot  cries 
Fill  with  soft  sounds  the  spaces  of  the  air. 
Such  the  fair  scenes  the  sportsman-tourist  views, 
That  thrill  with  glad  surprise  the  angler's  heart. 


23G  POEMS    OF   THE    ROD    AND    GUX. 


THE  MANGROVE  SNAPPER. 

A  FAR  o'er  Florida's  fair,  flowery  lands 

Wanders  the  angler;  now  by  verdurous  brink 
Of  river  by  the  drooping  forests  fring'd, 
All  sown  with  lovely  isles  of  emerald  green. 
He  tracks  the  stream  to  its  far  fountain-heads, 
Where,  but  a  slender  brook,  o'er  purple  stones 
It  tumbles,  rippling  on  its  jocund  way; 
Then  with  a  fuller  tide,  thro'  tangled  swamps 
It  foams  with  spray,  like  breakers  on  a  bar. 

Anon  he  journeys  over  rolling  plains, 
Enamell'd  thick  with  bright  convolvuli, 
Lilies  and  plants  of  most  surpassing  bloom, 
A  sumptuous  garden  sown  by  Nature's  hand. 
Anon  he  roams  by  Halifax's  banks, 
Where  foam  and  toss  thro'  woods  the  rushing  stream 
A  fair  stream  border'd  with  savannas  vast, 
Where  the  free  breezes  blow  thro'  russet  grass, 
Stirring  the  long,  white  plumes  of  Spanish  moss, 
And  scarlet  tufts  of  the  wild  calabash, 
Until  those  zephyrs  sleep  in  drowsy  calm. 

In  Indian  River,  or  by  Spruce  Creek  shore, 
Anchor'd  in  boat  he  casts  his  tackle  fine 
To  take  the  snapper  in  its  secret  haunts. 
F;ir  be  his  cast  beyond  his  rocking  boat, 
Far  o'er  deep  channels  near  the  hidden  snags, 
To  lure  this  shyest,  craftiest  of  fish; 
Strong  be  the  tackle,  for  the  saw-like  teeth 
Will  cut  your  silk-worm  gut  like  razor  edge, 
And  firm  the  hand  the  snapper  to  beguile 
From  submerg'd  roots,  else  hook  and  fish  are  lost, 
For  swift  it  rushes  for  its  secret  hole, 
And  fights  and  struggles  hard  while  life  remains. 

'Tis  a  fair  fish,  with  colors  amber-brown, 
Ilhim'd  with  brilliant  tints  of  golden  hue, 
Arm'd  with  sharp  spines  upon  the  dorsal  fin, 
And  wide  mouth  garnish'd  with  destructive  teeth, 


Tin:   i;r.h  BBOUPEB  OP  FLORIDA.  231 

Eyes  large  and  bright,  with  iris  golden- lined, 
Kyes  keen  for  nightly  feed  ;ind  darksome  days. 
It  is  no  hermit  fish,  to  swim  alone, 
The  solitary  tenant  of  the  stream, 
But  in  vast  numbers  they  collect  their  ranks, 
And  throng  the  deep  recesses  of  the  stream; 
And  there  the  fishers  come  with  meshing  seine; 
And  with  the  cast-net  capture  all  the  school. 


THE  RED  GROUPER  OF  FLORIDA.     (k'pinepMus  morio}. 

"The  rod  tMirr  loses  half  the  number  of  groupers  that  he 
hooks.  I  think  I  have  never  been  able  to  kill  on  a  rod  a  grouper 
over  five  pounds  in  weight.  I  have  hooked  many  larger  ones, 
but  they  always  got  the  belter  of  me." — S.  C.  CLARKE,  in  The 
Irishes  of  the  Kant  Atlantic  C'oast. 

L \\IK,  smiling  Florida,  though  gun  of  mine 

Hath  ne'er  resounded  in  your  drooping  woods, 
Though  rod  of  mine  hath  ne'er  made  hopeful  cast 
To  take  thy  grouper  or  thy  channel  bass, 
Yet  still  I  love  to  muse  and  dream  of  thee, 
And  picture  in  my  mind  thy  lovely  scenes, 
In  fancy  walk  beneath  primeval  shades, 
Low  island  groves  that  seem  to  lloat  the  waves, 
White  Cedar  trees  with  buttresses  grotesque, 
Whose  tops  aerial  hold  the  eagle  nests, 
'Neath  grand  magnolias  with  their  flowery  crowns, 
And  silvery  columns  of  the  papaw  fig. 
Here  the  wax  myrtles  shake  their  glossy  leaves, 
The  kalmias  and  azaleas,  interlaced 
With  purple  passion  flowers,  in  gay  festoons, 
And  lithe  clitonas  in  dim  alcoves  group'd; 
There  in  deep  vales  spread  coppices  of  pine, 
Dim  woodland  paths,  blue  with  the  violet  blooms, 
And  moist  brook  borders,  glossy  with  the  fern ; 
Where  skies  are  soft  above  in  tint  and  tone, 
From  clearest  amber-flush  to  heavenly  blue. 

In  salt  lagoon,  in  reaches  of  the  stream 
Mosquito  Inlet,  Indian  River  tides. 


238  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

The  angler  casts  his  line  or  drops  his  spoon 

For  shy  cavalle  or  the  channel  bass, 

For  giant  tarpum  or  the  noble  drum, 

Or  by  the  mangrove  islands,  in  whose  creeks 

And  deep  abysses  lurk  the  grouper  schools. 

"Pis  a  big  fish  with  spines  on  dorsal  fin, 

Mottled  like  tortoise-shell,  with  blended  hues, 

A  fish  voracious,  that  doth  make  its  haunt 

Amid  the  sunken  roots  of  mangrove  trees, 

And  thither  when  the  hook  is  fix'd  in  jaw 

He  runs  for  shelter  to  his  castle-hold. 

Firm  be  the  hand  to  check  his  downward  plunge, 

For  'tis  a  trial  between  man  and  fish, 

'Twixt  braided  tackle  and  resisting  strength, 

And  oft  the  grouper  wins  the  desperate  fight! 


THE  TARPUM  OF  FLORIDA.     (Megalops  thrissoides.) 

Q  SILVER-SIDED  fish— the  king 

Of  all  that  swim  the  southern  sea, 
The  skilful  angler's  vaunted  art 

Too  oft  is  triumph'd  o'er  by  thee, 
For  naught  avails  his  deadliest  hook, 

His  trolling  spoon,  his  braided  line, 
His  manly  strength,  his  Conroy  rod, 

To  drag  thee  vanquish'd  from  the  brine ! 

Off  rocky  reef  and  sandy  cape, 

Of  Florida's  low-lying  coast, 
These  silver  kings  the  surges  haunt, 

A  brilliant,  dashing,  leaping  host. 
To  take  the  salmon  is  an  ode, 

An  idyl  brook  trout  to  beguile, 
But  tragic  poem  'tis  to  kill 

The  tarpum  of  the  southern  isle. 

At  Homosassa's  river  head, 

At  Indian  River,  by  the  main, 
The  spearmen  in  their  shallops  lie, 

To  stab  thee  with  the  barbed  grain. 


i  ii  i:   r.oNiTO.  239 

III  shallow  reaches  of  the  stream 

Where  thick  subnn  -ses  grow 

They  iiather,  but  the  hostile  boat 

Drives  them  where  deeper  currents  flow; 
Then  with  impetuous  rush  they  speed, 

They  skim  the  waves,  they  leap  in  air, 
Their  silvery  sides  are  swift  and  bright 

As  the  chain-lightning  glare. 

By  the  calm  shores,  where  orange  fruits 

And  brown  bananas  shade  the  tide, 
And  flowers  embroider  with  their  bloom 

The  grassy  meads  at  water  side, 
These  gorgeous  fish,  with  ivory  scales, 

Matchless  in  strength,  supreme  in  speed, 
In  salt  lagoon  or  curving  bay, 

Rapacious,  on  their  victims  feed. 

O,  brother  anglers,  who  have  won 

Your  trophies  on  the  northern  coast, 
Kill'd  salmon  of  the  Labrador, 

Or  striped  bass,  your  noblest  boast, 
Haste  hither  to  Floridian  tides, 

Haste  with  your  choicest  rod  and  reel 
To  match  the  tarpum  with  your  skill, 

A  champion  worthy  of  your  steel. 


Till;   BONITO.     (£//•</«  r.-l.tmys.) 

|  X  all  the  warmer  waters  of  the  world, 

The  skip-jacks'  swarming  shoals  are  seen, 
Where  the  Sardinian  Islands  rest 
In  Mediterranean  tides  serene, 
And  where  the  tumbling  billows  pour, 
Along  America's  southern  shore ; 
While  dense  by  rocky  northern  coast, 
Wanders  the  countless  host. 


240  POEMS   OF   THE   EOD    AND   GUN. 

Their  form  symmetric,  their  sharp  fins, 

Proclaim  their  wondrous,  matchless  speed; 
While  their  white  row  of  vicious  teeth, 

Are  terrors  wheresoe'er  they  feed. 
Like  birds  of  passage,  they  pursue 

O'er  thousand  leagues  of  sea  their  way, 
Revisiting  each  well-known  shore 

Where  their  great  schools  were  wont  to  play 
What  power  directs  them  thro'  the  seas, 

Impels  their  myriad  hosts  to  roam, 
Prompts  to  forsake  for  years  a  shore, 

Then  leads  them  to  their  ancient  home? 
We  ask  the  question  all  in  vain, 
For  skill'd  philosophy  may  not  explain. 

In  August  season,  where  the  seas 

Are  brightened  by  the  finny  host, 
When  the  menhaden  shoals  abound 

And  weakfish  haunt  the  coast, 
Then  come  the  leaping  bluefish  schools, 

The  Spanish  mackerel,  keen  for  food, 
The  porpoise,  the  bouito  swift, 

Relentless  robbers  of  the  flood. 

The  ocean  angler  in  his  yacht, 
Hovers  about  like  bird  of  prey, 

Guides  the  true  helm  and  trims  the  sail, 
And  thro'  them  ploughs  a  foamy  way; 

Then  casts  his  glittering  trolling  bait, 

And  lures  bonito  to  his  fate. 

Up  thy  vast  stretch,  Long  Island  Sound, 
Bonitos  flash  in  sportive  play; 

They  cluster  in  the  sunken  reef, 
They  gather  in  the  salty  bay, 

They  seize  menhaden  as  they  fly, 

They  persecute  all  lesser  fry, 

And  in  their  turn  fall  helpless  prize, 

To  the  black  shark  a  sacrifice. 


THE   FLYING-FISH.  241 


THE  FLYING  FISH.     (Keoeastus  rolitans.) 

TN  Indian  Ocean,  or  in  seas 

That  dash  their  billows  upon  tropic  isles, 
AY  he  re  the  perennial,  soft  summer  time 
Around  the  shelly  beaches  smiles, 

The  myriad  tenants  of  the  surges  sweep, 
Haunting  the  salty  deep. 

There  the  fierce  cachalot  and  shark, 

And  fiercer  yet  dorado  of  the  seas, 
Gorgeous,  enamell'd  rich  with  silver  scales, 

Unite  in  ocean  voyages. 
Dorado,  ruthless  pirate  of  the  wave, 

Wages  its  war  with  all  the  finny  race, 
Now  fleeing  from  its  more  gigantic  foes, 

Now  seeking  weaker  victims  in  its  chase. 

And  chief  the  little  flying  fish  its  prey 

Swimming  in  glittering  schools  across  the  main; 
Then  swift  in  race,  pursuers  and  pursued 

Cut  the  blue  surface  of  the  watery  plain. 
Dorado,  swift  as  Indian  shaft,  pursues, 

The  flying  fish  with  equal  swiftness  flee, 
'Till  wearied  out  by  their  relentless  foe 

They  leap  the  waves  and  flutter  o'er  the  sea, 
Skimming  the  wave,  like  birds,  they  speed  their  way, 

Then  drop,  wing-weary,  helpless  in  the  spray; 
Dorado  still  pursues — again,  again  they  rise, 

Only  to  sink  at  last,  a  helpless  prey. 

Still  other  foes  these  winged  victims  meet 

When  skimming  the  blue  wave  in  panic  fright ; 
The  albatross  and  tropic-bird  pursue, 

And  with  strong  talons  seize  them  in  their  flight. 
For  them  no  refuge  in  the  sea  remains, 

No  sure  escape  when  fluttering  in  the  air, 
The  cruel  fish  below,  the  savage  bird  above, 

Prey  on  their  shoals  and  find  delicious  fare. 
The  hunted  hare  may  oft  escape  its  foes, 
But  the  poor  fly  ing- fish  no  refuge  knows. 
16 


242  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 


THE  POMPANO  OF  FLORIDA.     (Tracliynotus  carolinus.) 

"  The  pompano  is  to  a  gourmand  worth  a  journey  to  the  Gulf 
Coast."— 8.  C.  CLARKE  in  Fishes  of  the  Atlantic  Coast. 

O  WEET  Southern  airs  and  flowery  blooms 

Of  the  magnolia's  rare  perfumes, 
The  breath  of  rose,  the  violet's  scent, 
In  one  commingled  sweetness  blent, 
Delight  me  as  I  muse  of  thee, 
Fair  Florida,  far  down  the  sea. 

Musing,  I  seem  to  tread  thy  glades, 
The  vistas  of  thy  wood-arcades, 
Where  golden  globes  of  oranges 
Enrich  perennial-flowering  trees; 
And  the  pineapple's  ruddy  cone 
Gleams  in  the  thorny  thicket's  zone. 

I  seem  to  track  the  rivulet's  course 
Far  up  its  tangled  journey's  source, 
To  follow  it  o'er  grassy  meads, 
Amid  the  jungles  and  the  reeds, 
To  meet  it  where  it  joins  its  tide 
To  spreading  bay  or  river  wide, 
And  take  the  grouper,  trout  or  bass 
From  ripples  crystal-clear  as  glass. 

But  chief  the  triumph  of  my  line 
To  take  pompano  from  the  brine, 
The  richest  prize  the  angler  knows 
Where  ocean  rolls  or  river  flows. 
A  fish  with  frosted  silver  deck'd, 
With  blue,  resplendent  colors  fleck'd, 
Flavor'd  more  richly  than  all  schools 
That  haunt  the  shallows  and  the  pools. 

A  bottom-fish,  its  sumptuous  fare 
Crustacea  and  the  mollusk  rare, 
Rich  food  that  makes  the  sheepshead  fish 
To  epicure  a  matchless  dish! 
Salmon  of  sea  and  trout  of  brook, 
Fair  captive  of  the  angler's  hook, 
No  daintier  delicacies  boast 
Than  the'pompano  ofjfte  coast. 


ANGLING.  243 


ANGLING. 

rosy  morning  blushes  in  the  skies, 
Illuminating  with  its  beam  the  glooms, 
It  bids  the  angler  from  his  couch  arise 
And  taste  the  dewy  landscape's  soft  perfumes. 

The  sun  peeps  gayly  o'er  the  eastern  hill, 
His  level  shafts  shoot  brightly  down  the  air; 

They  glance  athwart  the  ripples  of  the  rill, 
They  gleam  across  the  uplands  bleak  and  bare. 

They  glisten  o'er  the  foliage  and  the  grass, 
They  touch  the  dews,  and  diamond  sparks  are  shown 

O'er  all  the  scene,  gems  clear  as  crystal  glass 
Shine  out  like  jewels  in  a  princess'  zone. 

Let  the  dull  sluggard  rest  in  slothful  dream; 

For  him  the  dawning  hath  no  charm  to  please, 
Nor  song  of  bird,  nor  murmur  of  the  stream, 

Or  gentle  rustle  of  o'erleaning  trees. 

But  the  blithe  angler  hastens  down  the  way, 
His  heart  tumultuous  with  a  throbbing  joy, 

For  hhn  all  Nature  hath  a  music  gay 
A  soft  enchantment  free  from  all  alloy. 

He  seeks  the  merry  brook  or  brimming  lake, 
Rejoic'd  along  their  grassy  banks  to  roam, 

He  sees  with  rapture  where  the  brook  trout  break 
Or  whirl  where  rise  the  bubbles  of  the  foam. 

Beneath  some  mossy  log  that  spans  the  brook 
He  knows  some  greedy  monster  lurking  hides; 

He  swings  the  slender  rod,  he  casts  the  hook, 
And  quick  the  gasping  victim  shows  its  sides. 

Or  haply  where  the  salt  tides  of  the  bay 
Tumultuous  thro'  the  rocky  inlet  pours, 

He  takes  the  squeteague  or  his  bluefish  prey, 
Or  bulky  sheepshead  by  the  shelly  shores. 


244  POEMS   OF  THE   KOD   AND   GUST. 

Or  in  his  little  skiff,  far  off  the  land, 
Anchor'd  o'er  sunken  rock  or  sandy  shoal, 

He  takes  the  sea  bass  with  his  pliant  wand, 
Or  the  blue  mackerel  where  the  billows  roll. 

Ah!  who  may  tell  the  pleasant  thoughts  that  fill 
His  mind,  entranced  by  Nature's  happiest  mood, 

When  all  of  earth  and  air  are  peaceful  still; 
No  jarring  sound  to  break  the  solitude? 

Come  forth,  pale  student,  from  thy  wasting  toil, 
Come  forth  from  warehouse  and  from  heated  street, 

Come  forth  to  joys  where  frothing  billows  boil, 
Or  where  the  woodland  shades  o'er  rivers  meet. 


THE  BLUEFISH.     (Pomatomus  Saltatrix.) 

TT  is  a  brave,  a  royal  sport, 

Trolling  for  bluefish  o'er  the  seas; 
Fair  skies  and  soaring  gulls  above, 

A  steady  blowing  breeze ; 
A  shapely  yacht  whose  foaming  prow 

The  billowy  plain  divides, 
That  like  a  gallant  courser  speeds 

Far,  free  o'er  ocean  tides. 

First  from  West  India  seas  they  came, 

Haunting  the  Cuban  coast, 
Cruel  as  Spanish  buccaneers, 

A  fierce,  rapacious  host. 
But  now  by  Northern  seaboard  shores 

Their  murderous  way  they  take, 
From  Mexic  Gulf  to  Labrador, 

Wherever  billows  break. 
The  weaker  tenants  of  the  main 
Flee  from  their  rage  in  vain, 
The  vast  menhaden  multitudes 

They  massacre  o'er  the  flood ; 
With  lashing  tail,  with  snapping  teeth 

They  stain  the  tides  with  blood. 


THE   HADDOCK   FISHERS.  245 

Rakish  arc  they,  like  pirate  craft, 

All  matchless  to  assail, 
With  graceful,  shapely,  rounded  sides 

And  the  sharp,  forked  tail; 
And  when  the  angler's  hook  is  fixed 

They  light,  they  struggling  bleed, 
Now  leaping  high,  now  plunging  deep, 

Darting  with  lightning  speed. 

And  yet  these  sea  marauders, 

These  tyrants  of  the  main, 
By  fiercer,  mightier  ruffians 

Are  hunted,  conquered,  slain; 
The  tumbling  porpoise  hunts  them, 

Dorado  fierce  pursues, 
And  when  the  shark  assaileth, 

Blood-stains  the  waves  suffuse. 


THE  HADDOCK  FISHERS.     (Morrliua  JZglifinus.) 

The  haddock  is  a  more  tasty  fish  than  the  codfish  and  is  usually 
smoked  before  being  brought  to  market. — VAN  DORNE  in  Fislies 
of  the  East  Atlantic  Coast. 

(~}FF  the  grand  bank  of  Newfoundland 

Amid  the  drifting  fogs  and  rain, 
Now  weltering  in  the  drowsy  calm, 

Now  tossing  in  mad  hurricane. 
Amid  the  sleety  snows  and  hail, 

Wrestling  with  billow  and  with  gale, 
The  humble  fishing  schooner  rides, 

The  sport,  the  plaything  of  the  tides. 

Hold  fast,  good  anchor,  fathoms  down, 

Cable  and  hawser  steadfast  hold, 
Or  helpless  else  the  drifting  wreck 

Beneath  the  surges  shall  be  roll'd. 
Never  again  the  gallant  crew 

To  home,  to  native  land  may  sail, 
Where  weeping  wife  and  wailing  child 

For  years  the  absent  shall  bewail. 


246  POEMS  OF  THE  ROD   AND   GUN. 

Off  Cape  Cod's  level,  sandy  shore 

The  fisher's  ply  their  toilful  work, 
The  cod  and  halibut  their  prey, 

The  haddocks  in  the  deeps  that  lurk. 
Chief  in  the  winter — stormy  time — 

They  sweep  the  seas,  they  drop  the  kedge, 
Then  cast  their  little  dories  out, 

To  anchor  over  bar  and  ledge ; 
And  oft,  too  oft,  these  frailest  boats 

'Mid  shifting  fogs  and  mists  are  lost ; 
Whelm'd  neath  some  ocean  steamer's  prow, 

Or  'gainst  a  floating  iceberg  tost. 
The  great  ship  hurries  on  its  way, 

It  hears  no  agonizing  cry ; 
The  grinding  floes,  the  wallowing  bergs 

O'er  whelm  them  as  they  thunder  by. 

Ah !  mariners,  sailing  the  salt  seas, 

In  hurricane,  in  typhoon-gale, 
While  raves  the  wild,  remorseless  breeze 

Thro'  straining  shroud  and  close-reef 'd  sail, 
How  oft  will  ye  that  day  recall, 

That  calm,  sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  bright, 
That  saw  your  vessel  seaward  turn, 

Departing  for  its  ocean  flight; 
Recall  the  old  gray  roof  of  home, 

The  simple  church  with  steeple  crown 'd, 
The  fields,  the  orchards  and  the  grove, 

The  bowery  village  that  surround ; 
And  chief  that  dear,  beloved  group 

Assembled  on  the  grassy  shore, 
Waving  a  last  and  long  farewell 

To  those  who  may  return  no  more. 


THE   STRIPED   BASS.  247 


THE  STRIPED  BASS.     (Roccus  Lineatus.) 

The  taking  of  the  striped  bass  is  what  the  salt-water  fisherman 
claims  the  right  of  terming  the  high- water  mark  of  all  angling. 
—VAN  DORNE  in  The  Fishes  of  the  East  Atlantic  Coast. 

TN  all  the  world  no  stretch  of  coast 

So  teems  with  fish-life  as  our  own; 
From  tepid  tides  of  Florida 
To  where  the  northern  shores  are  strown 
With  boulder  grim  and  jagged  rock, 
A  rampart  to  the  billows'  shock, 
Where  icy  currents  sweep  the  Banks 
Or  wash  the  shores  of  Labrador, 
These  finny  myriads  swarm  the  seas 
And  feed  by  every  shore, 
And  noblest,  bravest  of  the  race 
The  striped  bass  holds  foremost  place. 

'Tis  perfect  in  its  valorous  strength 
In  the  Sound's  swiftly  pouring  tides, 
In  Hell  Gate  mill-race,  or  mid  reefs 
That  hem  Long  Island's  ocean  side; 
Off  gray  Montauk,  Block  Island  bluffs, 
By  Martha's  Vineyard's  rocky  shore, 
Or  where  at  Cuttyhunk,  Pasque  Isle, 
The  tumbling  torrents  roar. 

There  in  great  deeps  of  ocean  floods 
Where  narrow,  rock-strewn  channels  sweep, 
The  strip'd  bass  hold  their  paradise, 
Unrivall'd  roamers  of  the  deep. 
There  the  surf-fisher  casts  the  bait, 
There  the  scaled  warrior  meets  his  fate, 
Where  matchless  skill  and  tackle  fine 
Conquer  those  heroes  of  the  brine. 
Strong  be  the  line  and  firm  the  hand 
To  drag  such  champion  to  the  strand. 

Pois'd  on  the  rock's  extremest  verge 
The  angler  like  a  sentry  shows, 
Swings  the  lithe  rod  and  whirls  the  bait 
Seaward  where  frothy  billow  flows; 


248  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

Then  comes  the  strike — the  splendid  fish, 
Full  of  the  rush  and  dash  of  waves, 
His  muscles  trained  by  many  a  shock 
And  battle  in  deep  ocean-caves, 
Makes  fiercer  fight  while  life  remain 
Than  bravest  ranger  of  the  main. 


SPANISH  MACKEREL. 

J^OVELIEST  of  all  the  tribes  that  swim 

The  ocean's  salty  tides, 
The  Spanish  mackerel  sweeps  the  seas, 

And  like  a  meteor  glides; 
It  speeds  far  off  the  harbor-bar, 

Where  tides  are  cool  and  deep, 
Shunning  the  shoals  that  skirt  the  shore, 

Where  the  swift  bluefish  leap. 

The  tenants  of  the  brook  and  lake 

In  glories  ne'er  compare 
With  these  gay  rovers  of  the  main, 

Painted  with  colorings  rare. 
Pompano  bright  with  yellow  gold, 

Strip'd  bass  of  snowy  sheen, 
The  drumfish  blazing  with  its  red, 

Bonito  splash'd  with  blue  and  green, 
No  rivals  have  in  inland  stream, 
No  peers  with  such  bright  gleam. 

Symmetric  with  its  rounded  form. 

Model  of  speed  and  grace, 
No  fairer  seafish  skims  the  wave 

Or  swifter  darts  in  race. 
Its  sides  are  azure  as  the  skies, 

Beneath  melt  tender  blues, 
While  golden  spots  of  virgin  gold 

The  shapely  forms  suffuse. 


SPANISH   MACKETIKI,.  249 

It  is  a  nomad  of  the  deep, 

A  pilgrim,  migratory  host, 
In  Mediterranean  tides  first  seen, 

Now  known  on  every  coast. 
Off  Carolina's  reefs  they  sweep, 

Off  Burnegat's  sand  bar; 
In  Sound  and  Gulf  of  Northern  shore, 

They  gather  fast  and  fur ; 
And  yachtsmen  o'er  the  billows  blue 
Their  plunging  multitudes  pursue. 

When  sounds  the  gong  of  grand  hotel, 

And  spread  is  sumptuous  board 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  sea  and  land, 

Where  wit  and  wine  profuse  are  pour'd, 
Where  smokes  the  lordly,  crisp  sirloin, 

Brown  haunch  of  venison  too, 
The  canvasback  of  Chesapeake, 

Salmon  from  surges  blue, 
The  gourmand  finds  no  daintier  dish 
Than  this  delicious  mackerel  fish. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  insert  in  conclusion  a  few  pieces,  selected  from  a  large 
number  of  miscellaneous  poems  sufficient  to  fill  another  volume 
of  equal  size  to  this  work. 

LONGFELLOW. 

T")EAR  Longfellow,  true  sorrow  fills  my  heart 

That  thou,  my  life-long  friend,  hast  pass'd  away, 
That  in  this  mortal  life  thou  hast  no  part, 
All  dumb  the  poet's  song,  the  lyrist's  lay! 

And,  lingering  still  I  conjure  up  each  scene 
When  we  were  young,  and  all  of  life  was  new, 
When  in  the  shades  of  Brunswick  woodlands  green 
Or  college- walks,  I  wander'd  long  with  you. 

'Twas  in  those  haunts  that  first  the  flaming  dart 
Of  poesy  divine  sank  deep  into  thy  heart. 
Then  first  was  swept  thy  sweet,  immortal  lyre, 
And  the  young  minstrel's  hand  first  struck  the  wire. 

That  summer  day  serene  I  call  to  mind, 
When  we  our  tributes  to  the  dead  Past  paid, 
Numbering  those  gone,  those  who  remain'd  behind, 
While  at  our  feet  thy  happy  children  play'd. 

Poet  of  nature!  who  so  lov'd  to  paint, 
Earth's  fairest  scenes — the  wind-swept  hill,  the  plain, 
Heroic  virtue  and  angelic  saint, 
Arcadian  haunts  and  Indian's  wild  domain. 

The  flowing  river,  the  majestic  woods, 
The  purpling  skies :  the  lake's  cerulean  space, 
The  tossing  seas,  the  pouring  forest-floods — 
Ah!  who  may  seek  thy  absence  to  replace! 


WILD   HORSE   OF  THE   PRAIRIES.  251 

With  reverential  step  we  place  thy  dust 
In  Nature's  fairest  scene,  where  trees  may  weave 
Their  garlands  o'er  thee,  and  sweet  songs  may  burst 
From  choiring  birds  at  day-dawn  and  at  eve. 

Far,  wide  for  thee,  there  shall  be  sad  lament 
In  humble  hut  and  in  palatial  dome; 
Thro'  Old  World,  and  thro'  New,  there  shall  be  sent 
A  sorrowful  wail  from  every  earthly  home. 


NOTE.— Our  friendship  with  Longfellow  commenced  in  our 
early  college  life  and  continued  uninterrupted  until  the  sad  day 
of  his  death.  His  class  in  Bowdoiu  College  preceded  that  of  our 
own  by  one  year,  and  was  famous  in  including  Longfellow, 
Hawthorne,  Cheever,  and  other  distinguished  scholars  in  its 
number.  We  have  often  met  in  friendly  intercourse  with  him 
since  our  college  days,  and  exchanged  letters  with  him  frequent 
ly;  our  latest  letter  from  him  being  dated  some  three  weeks  be 
fore  his  death.  In  passing  a  week  or  two  with  us  in  Boston,  he 
read  to  us  the  MS.  sheets  of  his  just -published  work,  viz., 
"Outre-Mer,"  and  we  assisted  in  finding  a  publisher  for  the 
volume. 


WILD  HORSE  OF  THE  PRAIRIES. 

other  scenes  their  lights  expand, 

Out  in  the  savage  western  land, 
Where  wildernesses  lone  and  grand, 

Their  awful  glooms  extend; 
Far  where  the  Rocky  Mounts  upthrow 
Their  pinnacles  of  rock  and  snow, 
White  cones,  whereon  the  sunset's  glow, 

Its  roseate  hues  doth  blend. 
Around  them,  woods  primeval  press, 
Around  them,  pastures  measureless, 
Waved  by  the  idle  wind's  caress, 

Reach  th'  horizon's  edge. 
In  dark  ravine  and  gulch  the  bear 
And  tiger-cat  have  made  their  lair, 
The  bison  range  the  meadows  there, 

To  browse  the  bending  sedge. 


252  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   ANT)   GUN. 

O'er  open  plain,  in  leafy  dell, 
In  hollow  vale,  on  upland  swell, 
The  wild  steeds  of  the  prairies  dwell, 

Free  as  the  mountain  wind ; 
No  iron  bit  or  curb  have  they, 
No  galling  spur,  no  trappings  gay, 
No  rider  to  control  their  way, 

Their  untam'd  limbs  to  bind. 
Free  as  the  eagle  cleaves  through  space, 
They  curvet  or  they  join  in  race, 
Fleeter  than  wild  beasts  of  the  chase, 

A  vast  unnumbered  throng; 
They  crop  the  dewy  grass  at  will, 
In  ice  cold  waters  drink  their  fill, 
Scour  the  wild  plain  or  sweep  the  hill, 

Unscarr'd  by  whip  or  thong. 
Yet  comes  at  times  a  yelling  crew, 
The  savage  with  his  wild  halloo, 
The  painted  Blackfoot  or  Sioux, 

All  greedy  for  the  spoil; 
It  were  a  thrilling  sight  to  see 
Those  lawless  riders  fierce  and  free, 
Each  swinging  with  a  madden'd  glee, 

The  lariat's  twisting  coil. 
On,  on  the  frantic  horsemen  sweep, 
On,  on  the  snorting  wild  steeds  leap, 
Down  flowery  slope,  o'er  wooded  steep, 

Pursuers  and  pursued; 
Then  far  th'  unerring  noose  is  thrown, 
The  stately  bay  or  lusty  roan 
Fall  captive,  panting,  with  a  groan, 

All  vanquish'd  and  subdued. 


•II  IK    OCEAN   YACHT    RACE.  253 


THE  OCEAN   YACHT  RACE. 

A    NOBLE  sight  is  this,  I  ween, 

Fair  panorama  of  the  sea, 
The  ocean  white  with  crested  foam 

To  windward  and  to  lee; 
Bright  shines  the  day  on  Staten  Isle, 

On  woods  of  emerald  green, 
On  stately  dome  and  villa  roof, 

With  field  and  lawn  between. 
Long  Island  stretches  east  away, 

Engirdled  with  the  brine; 
On  sandy  bar  and  weedy  rock 

The  glorious  sunbeams  shine. 

Full  many  a  score  of  stately  yachts 

Wide  o'er  the  sea  are  spread, 
Careening  like  white-pltimag'd  birds, 

On  rushing  pinions  sped. 
Vast  steamers  bound  for  foreign  laud, 

Their  smoky  banners  raise; 
The  flag  of  every  nation 

Its  blazon'd  field  displays. 
The  sounds  of  martial  music 

From  many  a  deck  arise, 
Loud  shouts  of  acclamation 

Swell  grandly  to  the  skies; 
From  fortress  wall  and  green  parade 

Ring  out  the  cannonade. 

Off  Sandy  Hook  two  stately  yachts 

The  broad  arena  sweep, 
While  meteor  flag  and  flag  of  stars 

To  each  tall  masthead  leap ; 
Each  emulous  to  win  the  prize 

For  speed  in  ocean  race; 
To  claim  the  palm  of  victory 

O'er  ocean's  rolling  space. 


254  POEMS   OF   THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

See  how  they  matchless  ride  the  seas, 

Like  rush  of  desert  steed, 
Graceful  as  swan  on  limpid  lake, 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  speed. 
A  cloud  of  canvas  each  displays 

From  deck  to  topmast  head, 
Jib,  mainsail,  spinnaker, 

In  ample  folds  outspread. 

Onward,  right  onward  see  them  fly, 

Cleaving  the  tumbling  surge; 
A  score  of  miles  away  the  goal 

To  which  the  champions  urge. 
The  mark  is  reach'd,  and  homeward  now 
On  free  wind  turns  each  dashing  prow. 
So  ends  the  race,  the  first  great  race, 
Where  Puritan  holds  foremost  place ; 
But  nobly  in  the  watery  way 
Genesta  bore  her  flag  that  day ! 

Once  more  these  yachts  the  challenge  fling, 
Again  on  rushing  wings  they  swing; 
From  Scotland  Lightship  swift  they  bear, 

Each  yacht  a  pyramid  of  snow, 
The  white  sails  blossoming  high  in  air, 

Balloon  jibs  all  aglow! 
Yielding  to  pressure  of  the  breeze, 

Thro'  the  salt  ocean  sleet  they  dash, 
Plunging  thro'  maelstrom  of  green  waves, 

Through  whirling  foam  they  flash, 
'Tis  battle  of  the  flight  and  chase, 

Pursuer  and  pursued ; 
The  centreboard,  the  cutter  race, 

Fought  out  o'er  ocean  flood. 
Ah,  Puritan  hath  won  the  prize! 
And  cheers  exultant  rend  the  skies. 


ENGLISH   RACES   AND   AMERICAN  TRIUMPHS.      255 


ENGLISH   RACES  AND   AMERICAN  TRIUMPHS. 

"OEJOICE  for  triumphs  on  the  turf, 
For  victories  o'er  the  ocean  surf 

Far  as  the  waves  are  tost ! 
Our  shapely  yachts  have  spread  the  sail, 
Have  dared  the  tumults  of  the  gale, 
The  peltings  of  the  snow  and  hail 

To  anchor  by  the  British  coast. 
Our  Sappho,  Dauntless,  and  the  brave, 
Swift  Fleetwing,  on  the  stormy  wave, 
By  Albion's  cliffs  and  headlands  bold, 
Have  shown  their  matchless  speed,  while  far 
Aloft,  upon  the  topmast  spar, 

Stream'd  out  the  starry  fold ! 

Along  those  shores,  one  summer  day, 
I  low  bright  the  white-wing'd  fleet's  display, 
When  England's  yachtsmen  dar'd  the  world 
To  meet  them  with  the  sails  unfurl'd 

In  national  sea  race. 
Ah!  then,  America,  how  grand 
Thy  triumphs  in  that  foreign  land! 

Taking  the  victor's  place. 

Now,  a  more  brilliant  crown  we  claim, 

Won  in  historic  fields  of  fame; 

Won  on  the  English  turf  renown'd; 

Won  where  French  steeds  by  kings  were  crown'd; 

At  Epsom  and  Newmarket  won 

From  the  best  steeds  that  ever  run ; 

Won  where  the  Queen's  cup  was  the  prize; 

Blue  Ribbon,  dear  to  English  eyes; 

Dear  o'er  all  English  ground! 

For  years  untold  the  British  steed, 
Of  choicest  blood,  of  rarest  breed, 

Nurtur'd  by  prince  and  peer, 
At  Ascot,  Derby's  famous  field, 
Had  caus'd  all  foreign  rivals  yield — 

Yield  in  the  race-career. 


256  POEMS   OF  THE   ROD   AND   GUN. 

And  now  from  realms  beyond  the  sea; 
From  thy  vast  plains,  America! 
From  prairies  broad,  from  pastures  green, 
The  steeds  of  Lorillard  and  Keene 

Meet  on  the  British  field. 
The  English  nobles  as  they  lead 
Forth  from  the  stall  the  prancing  steed, 

Fear  never  prize  to  yield. 
Ah !  little  dream  they  that  at  last 
Their  miracles,  so  matchless  fast, 
Shall  yield  the  palm  when  Iroquois 
Shall  lead  the  van  in  racing  war, 
And  glorious  Foxall  and  Parole 
Shall  foremost  reach  the  victor's  goal, 
And  win  the  prize  and  wear  the  crown 
Of  grand,  illustrious  renown. 

Look  to  your  laurels!  ye  that  sweep 
With  stately  yacht  the  ocean  deep, 
Lest  a  new  Madge  shall  bear  away 
The  Conqueror's  Cup  we  hold  to-day. 


THE  RACES  AT  THE  FASHION  COURSE. 

T^ORTH  in  the  broad  arena's  space, 

All  harness'd  for  the  Champion  race — 
With  eye  of  fire,  with  arching  neck, 
Impatient  of  the  rider's  check; 
Beating  with  iron  hoofs  the  ground; 
With  swelling  chest,  and  sinewy  limb, 
Shapely  as  greyhound's  and  as  slim — 
Frantic  and  fired  with  shout  and  cheer, 
The  brave  horse  chafes  for  the  career! 

He  is  of  royal  stock  and  strain — 
Of  race  illustrious  on  the  plain; 
For  centuries,  his  sires  renown'd, 
In  many  a  laurell'd  field  were  crown'd — 
When  in  the  tourney's  guarded  space 
Kings  strove  in  combat  or  in  race — 


THE  RACES  AT  THE   FASHION  COURSE.  257 

When  Saxon  earl  and  Norman  king, 
With  levell'd  lance  and  broad-sword  swing, 
Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  strove  in  the  ring. 

For  ages  o'er  Arabian  wild, 
Nurtur'd  like  warrior's  petted  child, 
He  shar'd  the  Arab's  tent  and  bed, 
The  Bedouin's  goat-milk  and  the  bread- 
Bearing  the  swarthy  Sheik  afar, 
In  robber  forays,  or  in  war; 
Foremost  to  bleed  where  brandish'd  lance 
And  scimetars  in  conflict  glance. 

In  many  a  long  and  weary  day, 
When  o'er  the  desert's  waste  of  gray, 
By  palm  groves  or  Saharas  wan, 
As  toil'd  the  motley  caravan; 
When  all  the  tribes  of  Palestine 
And  Egypt,  march'd  in  lengthen'd  line, 
Bound  for  fam'd  Mecca's  holy  shrine — 
Then,  far  beyond  the  camel's  train, 
Or  dromedaries  of  the  plain, 
Thy  blooded  sires  the  way  would  lead, 
Pre-eminent  in  strength  and  speed; 
And  when  the  deadly  simoon  came, 
With  choking  blast  and  breath  of  flame, 
Overwhelming  with  the  blinding  sand 
The  death-doom'd  loiterer  of  the  band, 
Then  swifter  than  sirocco's  breath — 
Swifter  than  A/rael's  wings  of  death— 
Thy  tleet-limb'd  fathers  safely  bore 
Their  riders  the  broad  deserts  o'er! 

The  signal  sounds!     Each  glorious  steed 
Launch'd  with  the  dazzling  lightning  speed, 
Starts  forth  to  win  the  conqueror's  meed. 
Patchen  and  Flora— matchless  pair- 
Contend,  while  plaudits  rend  the  air. 

E'en  like  the  Indian  arrow's  flight 
From  bended  bow  of  peerless  might, 
When  feather'd  shaft  is  sped  by  hand 
Of  stateliest  warrior  of  the  band, 
17 


258  POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  AND  GTTNT. 

Swifter  than  shaft  or  bolt  they  glide 
In  hot  contention  side  by  side — 
A  miracle  of  speed,  that  well 
Might  task  the  wide  world  to  excel. 

The  race  is  o'er.     Tis  hard  to  yield 
The  palm  to  either  in  the  field, 
For  each  a  marvellous  race  has  run, 
And  each  the  victor's  prize  has  won. 
Not  yet  may  either  champion  reign 
Supreme  upon  the  racer's  plain. 


THE  ARCTIC  TRAGEDY. 

Captain  DeLong  and  his  heroic  comrades  died  like  Christian 
heroes,  and  their  sufferings  and  heroism  will  ever  cast  a  ray  of 
glory  over  the  dark  and  desolate  pages  of  the  Arctic  exploration. 

little  shipwrecked  band,  long  tempest-tost, 
Stood  shivering,  hopeless,  on  the  inclement  coast, 
The  frozen  sea  was  white  with  drifted  floes, 
The  Arctic  winter  round  them  whirled  its  snows, 
A  glittering  plain  of  adamantine  ice,  I 
Crowned  here  and  there  with  iceberg  precipice ; 
O'erhead  a  sky  where  angry  tempests  haste, 
And  all  around  the  illimitable  waste! 
Such  the  drear  spot  in  far  Siberian  land — 
A  lifeless,  lone,  inhospitable  strand — 
No  bending  woods  to  cheer  the  desert  space, 
No  friendly,  sheltering  roof  the  eye  might  trace, 
No  voice  of  human  life  or  human  toil, 
No  jocund  carols  where  men  till  the  soil; 
But  all  is  desolate  and  dark  and  drear, 
A  hopeless  solitude,  a  place  of  fear. 
And  here  assembl'd  on  that  savage  shore 
These  shipwrecked  men  their  wretched  fate  deplore; 
Perished  with  cold,  and  ghastly,  grim  and  pale, 
They  shrink  and  feebly  shiver  in  the  gale. 
Alas!  poor,  lost  Jeannette!  so  fair  to  see, 
Built  to  defy  the  rage  of  stormiest  sea. 


THE   ARCTIC   TRAGEDY.  259 

Ah!  little  dreamed  they  that  this  northern  blast 
Alight  rend  the  solid  sides  and  rive  the  mast. 
Ah  then,  with  icy  gyves  and  fetters  bound, 
And  mighty  ice  floes  clasped  the  vessel  round, 
It  groaned,  it  trembled,  as  with  throes  of  pain, 
Then  sank  from  sight  forever  in  the  main! 
Were  ne'er  in  village  church  of  native  land, 
Were  ne'er  in  famed  cathedral,  dim  and  grand, 
Such  heartfelt  offerings  £s  these  rough  men  pay, 
To  their  Creator  on  that  fatal  day. 
Ah!  there  was  little  hope  of  happy  life, 
Of  glad  return  to  kindred,  home  and  wife; 
Ah!  little  hope  for  such  delights  as  these 
To  cheer  these  victims  of  relentless  seas. 
All  human  help,  all  mortal  aid  seemed  vain 
To  warm  the  life-blood  in  each  frozen  vein. 
Famished  with  want,  they  still  will  conjure  up 
The  precious  food,  the  generous  flowing  cup, 
And  seemed  to  taste  in  fancy's  dream  once  more 
The  sumptuous  feastings  they  had  known  of  yore. 
Ala-!  for  them  no  more  the  fond  caress, 
All  the  sweet  joys  of  human  tenderness, 
The  fireside  bliss,  the  dear,  domestic  group, 
The  lamp-lit  room,  the  festal,  youthful  troop, 
The  village  square,  the  city's  crowded  street, 
The  cordial  greetings  from  the  friends  you  meet. 

Here  on  the  shores  of  Lena's  frozen  flood, 
DeLong's  sad  crew  with  hearts  despairing  stood; 
Then  rose  the  chief,  and  with  a  drooping  head 
And  swimming  eyes  the  Sacred  Service  read; 
Then  hands  were  clasp'd,  the  farewell  words  they  speak, 
For  two  must  go  for  helpful  aid  to  seek. 
They  went,  and  rescue  came,  alas!  too  late, 
The  little  starving  band  had  met  their  fate! 


260  POEMS  OF  THE  EOD   AND  GUN. 


GAYETIES  OF  NIGHT   IN  THE   CITY. 

TT  is  eight  "o'clock  of  night,  and  the  pallid  frosty  light 

Of  the  winter  moon  streams  down  on  each  thoroughfare  and 

square, 

And  the  mantle  of  the  snow,  on  roof  and  portico, 
Is  gleaming,  far  and  wide,  in  the  gaslight's  steady  glare. 

The  streets  are  all  ablaze,  in  the  avenue's  thronging  ways, 
And  Broadway,  with  its  lights,  is  dazzling  to  behold, 

So  the  people  stay  their  tread,  to  behold  the  wonders  spread 
In  the  windows,  with  their  treasures  of   silks  and  gems  and 
gold. 

See  how  the  human  tide  pours  through  the  portals  wide, 
Where  theatre  and  music-hall,  with  tempting  shows  invite; 

See  how  they  endless  pour  thro'  the  hospitable  door 
Of  grand  saloon  and  great  hotel,  one  flood  of  blazing  light. 

The  city  clock  strikes  ten,  and  now  the  tides  of  men 
Are  ebbing,  ebbing  fast,  with  fainter,  fainter  flow, 

But  up  a  noble  Square,  there  is  flash  and  dazzling  glare, 
Where  grind  of   wheel  and  hoof  of  steel  disturb  the  winter 
snow. 

A  stately  mansion,  broad  and  high,  illumes  the  dusky  sky 
With  spouting  jets  and  blazing  lamps  and  windows  all  aflame, 

For  the  grand  ancestral  hall  is  brilliant  with  the  ball, 
With  the  glitter  of  gay  dresses  of  damsel  and  of  dame. 

The  corridors  and  parlors  are  bright  as  in  the  day, 
With  chandelier  and  lustre,  and  wax-lights  red  and  white, 

Like  grotto  of  the  fairy-land  when  some  enchanter's  wand 
Fills  all  the  crystal  caverns  with  illumination  bright. 

Around  the  gilded  walls  the  streaming  radiance  falls 
On  statues  and  on  paintings,  all  miracles  of  art, 

The  banquet  hall  is  gay  with  bewildering  display, 
And  the  rosy  bloom  of  flowers  pervades  its  every  part. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.  261 

What  loveliness,  what  grace,  what  charms  of  form  and  face 
Entrance  the  sense,  as  o'er  the  floor  the  whirling  dancers  flyl 

A  sweet  blonde  here  with  golden  hair  and  brow  as  lily  fair, 
And  there  a  gay  brunette  with  eyes  like  stars  of  sky. 

Rare  music  with  its  chime,  its  melodies  sublime 

Enchants  the  air,  delights  the  ear,  and  speeds  the  dancers'  feet; 
The  swift  waltz  swifter  grows,  and  the  polka  faster  flows 

And  the  mazes  of  the  Lancers  are  evermore  more  fleet. 

So  the  rosy  moments  haste  where  youth  and  beauty  taste 
The  intoxicating  draughts  in  pleasure's  cup  that  swim, 

Until  the  streak  of  dawn,  until  the  flush  of  morn 
Steal  in  to  quench  the  lights  and  make  the  pageant  dim. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

* 
rpHE  year  is  well-nigh  ended,  the  leaf  is  sere  and  brown ; 

The  elm  casts  down  its  coronal,  the  oak  its  faded  crown; 
Bleak  thro'  the  leafless  copse-wood,  bleak  o'er  naked  hill, 
The  sharp  December  breezes  blow  desolate  and  shrill. 

Like  birds  of  varied  plumage  those  leaves  fly  round  and  round, 
Now  whiiTd  in  dancing  eddies,  now  settling  to  the  ground; 
The  road  is  hard  like  iron,  the  frozen  stream  like  steel, 
And  scarce  doth  show  the  impress  of  the  gliding  skater's  heel. 

It  is  the  time  of  Christmas,  the  merry  Christmas  time! 
Hark!  how  the  bells  are  pealing  the  jocund  Christmas  chime; 
The  church-walls  wave  with  the  branches  of  the  hemlock  and 

the  pine, 
The  Christmas-tree  is  burdeu'd  with  gifts  that  on  it  shine. 

Merry  it  is  in  city,  merry  in  village  street, 
Merry  where  lonely  farm-house  sleeps  in  its  calm  retreat, 
For  now  is  merry  Christmas,  and  Christmas  fires  are  lit, 
And  close  around  the  fireside  the  Christmas  revellers  sit. 

Long  in  the  costly  mansion,  where  wealth  luxurious  dwells 
The  singer's  tuneful  music,  delighteth  with  its  swells; 
And  many  a  blazing  lustre  and  lamp  of  fretted  gold, 
Shines  o'er  the  velvet  couches,  and  drapery's  damask  fold; 
While  swift  the  dancer's  footstep  the  graceful  measure  treads, 
And  pleasure  crowns  with  garlands  fair  forms  and  lovely  heads. 


POEMS  OF  THE  KOD   AND  GUN. 


TO  THE  COMET  OF  1882. 

TT^HITHER,  O  wanderer  of  the  upper  space, 
Dost  tbou,  thro'  regions  of  the  empty  air 
Still  urge  perpetual  thy  trackless  race, 
Dost  ever  and  forever  onward  fare? 

We  see  thy  flaming  meteor  at  night, 

When  darkness  first  is  touch'd  with  daylight  glow, 
When  constellations  pale  their  fading  light, 

And  morn's  first  beams  the  firmament  o'erflow. 

Thro'  all  the  lonely  watches  of  night's  gloom, 
Unseen,  perhaps,  by  mortal  eye,  the  way 

Thro'  million  leagues  of  space  thy  sparks  illume, 
Thy  fiery  banners  their  great  folds  display. 

The  moon  shines  out  when  twilight  hues  grow  dim. 

She  fills  her  golden  horn  with  light,  and  then 
Fadeth  away,  and  is  obscured  again, 

Thro'  all  her  curved  rim. 

But  thou  dost  never  pale  thy  flame, 
But  steadily  throughout  the  lapse  of  time 

Dost  keep  unswerving  thy  grand  march  sublime, 
Forever  still  the  same. 

The  planets  in  their  orbits  disappear, 
The  twinkling  stars  haste  on  their  cloudy  path, 

The  round  red  sun  an  endless  journey  hath, 
But  mid  them  all  thou  travellest,  year  by  year. 

But  soon  will  telescopic  science  fail 
Thy  fleeting,  fading  presence  to  discern ; 

To  catch  in  midnight  glooms,  or  daybreak  pale,' 
The  place  where  all  thy  glimmering  vapors  burn. 

Yet  ages  hence,  when  all  these  living  men 
Have  pass'd  from  memory  in  oblivion's  dust, 

Thy  flaming  torch  will  reappear  again, 
Thy  bright  effulgence  on  the  world  will  burst. 


"  SPRITE  HALL."  263 

"SPRITE    HALL." 

AN  ENGLISH  SCENE. 

f)N  mouldering  battlement  and  wall 

The  sparkles  of  the  moonlight  full; 
On  leaning  tower,  and  crumbling  arch 
Assail'd  and  storm'd  by  ages'  march, — 
On  shatter'd  belfry,  through  whose  bars 
Twinkle  and  wink  the  heavenly  stars, — 
On  drawbridge  sinking  in  the  stream, 
Portcullis  with  its  chain  and  beam,— 
On  castle  ditch  and  fosse  and  moat, — 
The  solemn  lights  of  evening  float. 

It  is  a  weird,  forsaken  place — 
The  relic  of  some  vanish'd  race, 
On  whom  disaster,  grief  and  death 

Have  sigh'd  with  desolating  breath, 

Humbled  the  lofty  head  in  woe, 

Genius  and  beauty  levell'd  low, 

And  laid  the  last  heir  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  decay'd  ancestral  tomb. 
So  as  the  dusty  years  have  tied, 

And  o'er  the  proud  oblivion  spread, 

While  the  old  masters  of  this  spot 

Have  vanish'd  in  the  dust,  forgot, 

So  have  the  years  with  wasting  power 

Swept  here  o'er  princely  dome  and  tower, 

Tumbling  each  turret  to  the  ground 

A  shapeless,  grass-o'ermantled  mound ; 

On  groined  roof  and  cornice  gay 

Hung  out  a  weedy  banner  gray, 

And  with  the  color'd  mosses  strown 

The  hearthstone  and  the  threshold -stone. 
Pale  moonlight  through  the  ruin  shines, 

Through  ivies  and  the  gadding  vines, 

And  through  each  broken  casement  pours 

Its  checker'd  light  across  the  floors. 


264  POEMS  OF  THE  KOD  AND  GUN. 

Its  solemn  broken  gleam  doth  fall 

Within  the  vast  baronial  hall, 

Where  long  ago  its  noble  lord 

In  grandeur  feasted  at  the  board ; 

Its  panels  of  the  polish'd  oak, 

Its  mighty  rafters  dark  with  smoke, 

Are  mildew'd  now  with  canker'd  mould, 

Wreath'd  with  the  creeper's  twisting  fold ; 

And  in  each  crypt  and  crevice  there 

Wave  weed  and  grass  and  wild-flowers  fair. 

In  the  old  time,  from  roof  and  beam 
The  great  war-banners  proud  would  stream, 
Flags  rent  in  many  a  battle-toil, 
Or  trophies  of  the  vanquish'd  spoil, 
Flags  by  those  stout  old  barons  borne, 
Their  silken  folds  all  glorious  torn, 
Have  moldered; — on  those  rafters  brave 
But  wild-briers  and  the  nettles  wave! 

The  Hall-gate  with  its  iron  rail 
O'ercrowned  with  urns  of  marble  pale, 
On  broken  hinge  doth  idly  swing 
In  every  breeze  that  stirs  its  wing, 
And  may  no  more  wide  open  stand 
To  welcome  in  the  coming  band. 

The  garden,  once  so  trim  and  fair, 
With  flowery  border,  gay  parterre, 
Neglected  hath  no  bloom  to  show 
Where  once  the  crimson  rose  would  blow, 
But  year  by  year  doth  cast  the  seed 
Of  noxious  thistle,  tangled  weed. 
— Decay  and  solitude  have  made 
Their  home  in  this  forsaken  shade! 


ALL'S  WELL.  265 


ALL'S  WELL. 

TN  their  forest  cump  at  night, 

Aweary  with  their  toil,  the  hunters  slept, 
And  winds  that  thro'  the  piny  branches  crept 
Seemed  to  whisper  in  their  sweep: 
Sleep,  drowsy  dreamers,  sleep; 
Your  watch-fires  fright  away  the  beasts  of  chase, 
All  harmless  round  your  midnight  camp  they  pace; 
The  breezes  whisper  and  the  running  streams, 
All,  all  is  well;  then  peaceful  be  your  dreams." 

lu  the  soldiers'  cump  at  night 
The  outlying  pickets  make  their  watchful  round; 
The  sentry's  ritle  glitters  in  starlight; 
Intent  he  listens  for  each  warning  sound, 
Intent  he  paces  by  the  shadowy  wood, 
Intent  he  gazes  o'er  the  misty  plain, 
Where  sleeps  the  army  with  its  warlike  train, 
But  hears  no  sound  the  silence  to  dispel, 
Then  give  the  cheerful  countersign — "  All's  well!  " 

In  sick  room  of  the  fever'd  maid,  at  night 
The  nurse  keeps  vigil  by  the  sleeper's  bed ; 
All  dark  the  place,  save  for  the  flickering  light 
By  feeble,  swinging  watch-lamp  shed; 
The  anxious  watcher  sees  a  rosy  glow 
Flush  the  sick  maiden's  check  of  snow; 
Angel  of  sleep  hath  cast  its  healthful  spell, 
And  so  she  grateful  whispers — "  All  is  well!  " 

In  storm-tost  sea  at  night, 
The  sea-boy  climbs  the  mast , 
And  his  gaze,  from  that  dizzy,  reeling  height, 
O'er  the  plunging  sea  is  cast; 
He  sees  no  perilous  reef  or  bar, 
He  sees  the  lighthouse'  friendly  star, 
He  hails  the  deck,  glad  news  to  tell, 
'  No  danger — all  is  well!  " 

In  the  City  Square  at  night 
The  watchman  paces  on  his  lonely  beat, 
He  sees  no  conflagration-flame, 
No  robber  on  the  street; 


POEMS  OF  THE  ROD  AND  GUN. 

And  as  the  great  Cathedral  bell 

Tolls  out  the  midnight's  solemn  time 

He  mingles  with  its  measur'd  chime 

The  cry  that  "  All  is  well! " 

By  the  angler's  camp  at  night, 

Sleep  sheds  its  drowsy  influence  down; 

There  is  no  murmur  in  the  foliage  light 

In  the  oak-trees  leafy  crown; 

Yet  a  faint  whisper  o'er  the  sleepers  stirs — 

Is  it  an  angel's  spell? — 

Cast  through  the  branches  of  the  firs, 

Assuring  "All  is  well." 


BURNING  OF  THE  OLD  (CONDEMNED)  LINE -OF -BAT- 
TLE  SHIP  OHIO,  AT  GREENPORT,  May  19th,  '64. 

~^D  spar,  no  mast,  no  rigging  left! 

Of  all  her  panoply  bereft, 
A  helpless  wreck  this  ship  of  fame, 
Lies  here,  a  holocaust  of  flame! 

Dismantled  ship  and  mournful  wreck! 
No  bristling  cannon  line  thy  deck; 
All  thy  grand  armament  of  war, 
That  erewhile  thunder'd  loud  and  far, 
Have  vanish'd  from  each  vacant  port 
Once  menacing  like  guarded  fort; 
But  ah !  these  murky  smokes  that  rise, 
These  lurid  flames  that  scorch  the  skies, 
Are  not  war's  powder-smokes  and  flame, 
But  rise  from  thy  consuming  frame! 
They  curl  above  thee  like  a  cloud, 
Enwrap  thee  as  with  sable  shroud ; 
Soon  will  thy  oaken  ribs  consume, 
The  fabric  perish  in  its  doom. 

Thy  peopled  decks  are  empty  now, 
No  seamen  cluster  on  thy  prow, 
No  sentries,  statue-like,  keep  stand, 
With  loaded  musket  grasp'd  in  hand, 


BURNING  OF  THE  LINE-OF-BATTLE  SHIP  OHIO.      267 

No  swarming  crews  the  masts  ascend, 
To  furl,  or  reef,  or  sails  to  bend, 
No  midshipmen,  a  mirthful  race, 
Nor  proud  lieutenants  there  to  pace, 
Moving  in  epauletted  pride, 
With  burnish'd  sabre  at  the  side; 
No  admiral  in  trappings  gay ; 
— Hull  and  his  chiefs  have  pass'd  away! 
Old  ship!  methinks  thro'  fog  and  haze 
Forth  on  the  cloudy  seas  I  gaze, 
And  view  in  panorama  grand 
Thy  first  proud  parting  from  the  land. 
Sailing,  I  see  thy  prow  explore 
A  foreign  coast,  an  alien  shore, 
Far  as  the  surfs  of  ocean  roar, 
Far  as  the  breeze  may  blow ; 
In  fancy's  glass,  all  dusk  and  dim, 
A  floating  world,  I  see  thee  swim, 
I  catch  thy  seaward  prow 
I  seem  to  view  where  groves  of  palm 
Perfume  with  aromatic  balm 
And  spicy  breath,  the  drowsy  gales 
That  fan  thy  snowy,  rounded  sails! 
That  vision  fades!  now  I  discern 
Wide  o'er  thy  mighty  prow  and  stern 
The  blood-red  banner  of  the  fire 
Careering  high,  careering  higher; 
See  fiery  billows,  cloudy  smoke, 
Triumphing  o'er  thy  heart  of  oak! 
I  hear  thy  timbers  rend  and  crash, 
As  if  devoured  by  lightning-flash; 
I  hear  thy  solid  timbers  groan, 
By  that  red  deluge  overthrown; 
Harsh  sounds,  sad  tolling  like  a  knell! 
— Farewell,  old  ship  of  war,  farewell! 

NOTE. — This  grand  old  vessel  was  once  the  flagship  of  brave 
old  Commodore  Isaac  Hull,  famous  in  the  war  of  1812  for  his 
victory  in  the  renowned  Constitution,  "Old  Ironsides,"  over  the 
British  frigate  Guerri(Ve.  He  was  the  nephew  of  our  grand- 
sire  Gen.  Wm.  Hull,  the  cousin  of  our  mother,  and  the  friend  of 
our  childhood. 


268  POEMS   OF  THE   KOD   AND  GUST. 


FRANK  FORESTER  MEMORIAL  ODE. 

[Extract  from  an  ode  written  by  request  for  the  proposed 
ceremonies  in  laying  the  corner-stone  of  a  monument  to  be 
erected  at  Greenwood  Lake  in  honor  of  Frank  Forester.] 


matter  that  thy  mortal  dust 
Be  not  in  graud  cathedral  laid, 
Entomb'd  with  all  the  wise  and  just, 

In  ceremonial  parade? 
It  is  the  memory  of  the  dead 

That  claims  the  solemn  rites  we  pay 
Not  the  poor  ashes  moldering 

Where'er  on  earth  they  lay. 
We  raise  the  monumental  shaft, 

We  build  the  great  memorial  shrine, 
To  show  the  depths  profound  of  love 

For  lives  that  thro'  all  ages  shine; 
And  on  the  spotless  tablet's  face 

'Grave  lines  that  Time  may  ne'er  efface, 
And  though  poor  Herbert  sleeps  not  here, 

This  votive  cenotaph  shall  bear 
The  tribute  of  affection's  tear, 

The  record  of  his  genius  rare, 
Though  Shakespeare's,  Milton's  mortal  dust 

May  rest  in  England's  stateliest  dome, 
They  still  have  shrines  in  many  a  land, 

In  every  human  heart  a  home. 

Here  in  this  lovely  spot  we  stand, 

Brethren,  to  honor  Herbert's  name, 
To  decorate  with  wreaths  the  shaft 

That  bears  the  tribute  to  his  fame. 
We  gaze  abroad  —  it  is  the  same, 

The  selfsame  scene  he  lov'd  to  view, 
The  broad,  extending  woods  of  green, 

The  same  soft  skies  of  heavenly  blue. 


FRANK   FORESTER  MEMORIAL  ODE.  269 

He  lov'd  to  breath  this  spicy  air 

When  diamond  dews  begemm'd  the  grass, 

Airs  blowing  thro'  umbrageous  groves, 
Fill'd  with  fresh  odors  as  they  pass. 

CircumtpictI    Gaze  around! 

Where'er  on  earth  may  Nature  spread 
A  more  enchanting,  smiling  scene — 

Green  vales  beneath— bright  skies  o'erhead? 
No  marvel  he  enamor'd  found 

Peace  in  this  fair  enchanted  ground. 
Pass  o'er  the  Bellvale  Mountain  edge, 

Pause  on  Point  Peter's  smooth  plateau, 
Surmounted  by  the  jutting  ledge, 

Then  view  the  landscape  xtretch'd  below; 
Gaze  down  the  vale  of  Sugarloaf, 

Gaze  over  Warwick  woodlands  wide, 
Waving  with  all  their  tufted  groves, 

Like  rolling  billows  of  the  tide. 

Broad-spreading  valleys  charm  the  eye, 

Vales  dropped  like  emeralds  of  green. 
Iledg'd  round  with  great  engirdling  woods — 

A  grand,  perennial  screen! 
Lo!  here  and  there  are  lakelets  fair 

Like  diamonds  dropped  by  fairy  spell, 
And  winding  rivulets  twinkling  bright, 

And  bosky  hedge  and  bushy  dell. 

Gaze  forth  where  Herbert  lov'd  to  gaze, 

Far  to  the  horizon's  purple  edge, 
Here  swimming  in  a  gauzy  haze, 

There  bright  with  splinter'd  cliff  and  ledge, 
It  is  a  vision  beautiful, 

A  dream  of  wonder  and  delight, 
Where  ridge  on  ridge  of  mountain  peaks 

Gleam  out,  then  fade  away  from  sight. 


270  POEMS   OF  THE   KOD   AND   GUN. 

Beneath  sleeps  Greenwood's  placid  lake, 
Woods,  meadows,  pasture,  stream  and  plain, 

White  villages  like  sea-bird  wings, 
Broad  corn-fields  and  expanse  of  grain ; 

Fair  scenes  so  dear  to  poet's  heart, 
Dear  to  the  painter's  glorious  art ! 

Gaze  and  admire!    Far-off  to  right 

Swell  highland  Hudson's  azure  hills ; 
Fam'd  Anthony  uplifts  his  bluff, 

Channel'd  and  seamed  with  dashing  rills. 
Across  yon  rocky-cradled  vale 

Soars  Shawangunk's  mountainous  ridge; 
High,  high  in  air  those  summits  sail, 

The  Kaatskill's  forest  bridge ! 
"  And  ne'er  in  life,"  wrote  Herbert's  pen, 
"  Have  I  such  lovely  landscape  view'd;  " 
The  pure  lake  cradled  in  the  glen, 

Reflecting  the  o'erhanging  wood. 


THE  END  OF  THE  YEAR. 

A  S  a  life-weary  pilgrim  sinks  to  his  last  repose, 

The  old  year,  pale  and  pulseless,  swoons  o'er  the  drifting 

snows; 

He's  gone  to  join  the  ages,  in  the  past  years  laid  away, 
To  sleep  in  time's  mausoleum,  until  the  judgment  day. 

When  he  wav'd  his  fairy  spring  wand,  the  airs  grew  balmy  sweet, 
There  op'd  the  blue-ey'd  violets,  in  every  dusk  retreat, 
Then  snow-white  bloom  of  orchards,  and  floral  offerings  rare, 
Illumin'd  all  the  landscape,  and  perf  um'd  all  the  air. 

His  magic  wand  touch'd  tree  and  shrub,  touch'd  arbor,  sprig  and 

spray, 
And  quick,   suffusing  smiles  of  green  would  o'er  the  tendrils 

play, 
They  blush'd  with  joy,  as  all  their  buds  their  folded  lips  un- 

clos'd, 
And  their  virgin  pearly  leaves,  and  petals  red  disclos'd. 


THE   END   OF  THE  YEAR.  271 

Then  all  the  painted  butterflies  enjoy'd  their  little  hour, 
They  flew  like  winged  blossoms,  from  floweret  to  flower, 
In  honeysuckles  dipt  the  bees,  to  sip  from  hidden  wells 
The  sweet,  ambrosial  nectar,  and  bear  it  to  their  colls. 

We  saw  thee  in  thy  summer  prime,  in  all  thy  bravery  drest, 
Thy  woods  in  wealth  of  foliage,  by  gentle  airs  caress'd, 
Thy  limped  lakes  reflecting  the  colors  of  the  skies, 
And  all  the  dales  and  mountains  made  gay  with  flowery  dyes. 

Ah,  pleasant  the  wide  landscape,  in  your  bright  summer  prime, 
The  clear,  swift,  shaded  brooks,  with  their  unceasing  chime, 
Where  droop'd  the  birch  and  alder,  the  willow's  tresses  green, 
And  oakes  and  elms  on  upland  slopes,  a  pastoral,  fair  scene. 

Thy  luminous  day-skies,  the  moonlit  shades  of  night, 
When  sweetest  sounds  of  nature  are  a  blessing  and  delight; 
When  chants  and  hymns  of  bird  life,  of  blackbird  and  of  thrush 
Entrance  with  soothing  melodies  the  universal  hush. 

We  welcom'd  thee  in  autumn,  o'er  all  the  harvest  plain, 
Thy  forehead  thick  en  wreath 'd  with  chaplets  of  the  grain, 
When  the  orchards  drop  the  fruit,  and  purple  grapes  hang  sweet, 
And  the  sportsman's  shots  are  ringing  in  field  and  wood  retreat. 

And  in  this  winter  season,  when  icicles  like  gems, 
Adorn  each  twig  and  bush  with  twinkling  diadems, 
We  welcome  the  New  Year,  for  o'er  the  falling  snow, 
The  sounds  of  merry  laughter  and  jocund  carols  flow. 

To  all  who  love  the  transports  of  forest  and  the  stream, 
To  hunt  the  deer,  to  take  the  fish  that  in  the  waters  gleam, 
To  seek  the  duck  and  partridge,  the  woodcock  and  the  quail, 
We  send  a  New  Year's  greeting,  we  say  to  them  "  All  hail  I  " 

May  the  New  Year  rejoice  you,  with  all  delights  of  life, 
Prosperities,  endearments,  of  home  and  child  and  wife, 
May  the  lights  of  love  and  friendship,  burn  ever  pure  and  clear, 
No  household  glooms,  no  shades  of  death,  to  darken  o'er  the 
year. 


